


In Trump We Trust

by MyLoveOfOrangesIsInevitable, orphan_account, spymaster41



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: F/M, Political Scandal, Prisoners, hostile takeover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27605129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLoveOfOrangesIsInevitable/pseuds/MyLoveOfOrangesIsInevitable, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spymaster41/pseuds/spymaster41
Summary: After a long, hard fought campaign, Joe Biden and Kamala Harris emerge victorious from the presidential race. Celebrating their close victory, the pair could never be prepared for the lengths the incumbent president would take to keep his seat of power...whatever the cost.
Relationships: Kamala Harris & Joe Biden, Kamala Harris/Douglas Emhoff
Comments: 69
Kudos: 33





	1. Hostile Takeover

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written in a while, so any critiques, comments, and suggestions are very appreciated! Credit to the person who got the ball rolling and gave me ideas where to take this story! I'll try to get new chapters out bi-weekly, so let me know what you think!

It was the eve of their victory. She remembered it clearly, because it was the last night of the month she was happy. They had just won the election, and her ears rang with the shouts of victory and joyous laughter that rang out of the celebration hall’s corridors and echoed outside the venue. Having maneuvered her way through scores of smiling guests, each eager to give her a firm handshake and warm wishes, Kamala Harris finally found herself next to the man who would serve as the 46th President of the United States. Joe had the biggest grin on his face, like a kid in a candy store. Nothing could ruin his moment, after 46 years and three, THREE, presidential runs, he would finally enact the change he so desperately desired for his country. He offered her a glass of…something, the night was a little too late, and her senses a little too removed to know quite what. She had taken it willingly, despite the copious amounts of press hoping for even a morsel of scandal to brag about in their tabloids the following day. But she didn’t care. It was over. Four years of embarrassment and two of struggle were finally proving their worth, as if the cosmic karma of the universe had aligned to settle the score.

Until he arrived.

It started with a few bangs, which the more inebriated guests could only assume to be celebratory firecrackers. However, they continued, with growing strength and ferocity, until they reached the entrance of the venue and reverberated off the door of the hall. Earsplitting, heart-stopping bangs of automatic gunfire pierced the air and set the crowd of people alight with panic and fear. Screams and shrieks intermixed with each other as party guests hopelessly shoved and pushed through each other to escape the ever-closer cacophony of violence. Kamala just stood there, frozen, her smile plastered dumbly on her face while her brain fought to register the commotion. Suddenly she was being lifted, and a wall of black suits obscured her vision. Secret Service members rushed towards the noise, throwing up tables, chairs, anything to create a makeshift barricade while someone urgently argued across a radio for backup. Kamala looked to Joe but his face betrayed the same confusion she felt. What could it be? A terrorist attack? Angered citizens on a revolutionary rampage? A psycho on a killing spree?

But as the doors to the chamber swung wide open, and his large, orange face came into her view, Kamala considered for the first of many moments that night if she was dreaming. He wasn’t alone, either, as a wall of mobile shields pressed toward her secret service detail from across the hall, fanning out until they had created an impenetrable barrier of bullet-resistant glass. The men behind the shields had weapons aimed, and Kamala blinked once, twice, before realizing a red dot was flashing across her eyelids.

Donald Trump moved forwards until he was just behind the wall of shields, and raised a megaphone to his lips. “Sorry Joe but the party’s over!” He licked his dry, cracked lips, beady eyes surveying the carnage inflicted by his men with glee. Amazingly, nobody had been shot. Everyone else had been scared away, herded by the gunfire, but not killed. “This election was a sham and you know it! I have friends in higher places than even you, and they won’t let this country, MY country, go down without a fight!” He wheezed laughter into the microphone, obviously enjoying himself. “Thanks to some very nice, tremendous help from our Russian allies, this country is still under my control. You can take your dreams of sitting in my office to your grave!” He lowered the microphone, and nodded to a man standing next to him. Suddenly the agent directly in front of Harris dropped to the floor, without a single cry escaping his lips. She spied a tiny dart sticking out of his neck and realized all too late what was happening. A second later, she felt a sharp stab of pain from her leg, and looked down to see a dart in her body as well. The last few seconds before her eyes blurred and she lost consciousness were filled with sporadic, fading gunfire as Trump’s men moved in and incapacitated her guards.

\--

\--

Kamala sucked in air, opening her eyes and seeing nothing but black. She blinked rapidly, and wondered what she was doing sleeping in her suit. Suddenly she remembered, she remembered everything that had happened in the hall. She sat up and lunged forward with her arm, failing to claw at anything except empty air. It was still pitch black and her eyes were having trouble adjusting to anything in front of her, leaving her feeling as if she had entered some alternate void of existence. But she was definitely alive. She breathed again, this time more slowly, and raised her hands to her face. There. She could just barely make out her hands. She stayed still in her upright position, and listened. Slowly, she could make out the breathing of others nearby, but it was still too dark to put together wherever she was. She tried to stand, but immediately the shackles on her wrists became apparent, pulling her back down to the floor. She was chained, she realized, chained to a wall, barely able to move further than the trapping her inside.

“Help!” she cried, uncaring of the danger it presented. Her voice echoed for what seemed like an eternity, but as her eyes adjusted to the gloom Kamala could make out a long hallway in front of her, with bars keeping her locked in a cell. “ _Kamala!_ ” a voice hissed to her right. Kamala turned her head, eyeing the identical cell next to her, and from the shallow breathing of the man lying on the ground Kamala recognized the sorry figure of the President-elect. He looked up at her, and the soulless, crushing despair that reflected back at her scared Kamala to her core. “Joe” she whispered breathlessly. “Where are we?” Joe hesitated to reply, but before he could utter a word, footsteps dragged both their attention away. Deep, heavy steps that resounded off of the floor, steps that could only come from a heavy boot. A figure walked through the gloomy shadows towards her, stopping outside her cell, and produced a key. It screeched as it slid into the lock, unoiled hinges protesting as the door to her cell swung open and the figure, clad in black body armor now that Kamala could see better, moved towards her. She didn’t even have time to fight back before he brought the key to her shackles, unlocking them as well and grabbing her arm.

“Wait!” she protested, struggling against his grip. “Who are you? What happened last night?” The man’s eyes averted her own from beneath his helmet, and he did nothing but begin dragging her out of her cell, towards the dark hallway, at the end of which was a set of double doors. “I am the Vice President-elect of the United States” she hissed. “You will answer me!” The man stopped for a second, and paused as if considering an answer. A moment later his fist swung out of nowhere, delivering a vicious blow to her ribs. Kamala bent over, clutching at his shoulder as the air was knocked out of her and she gasped for breath.

“Don’t you dare lay another finger on her!” Biden shouted after them. “I’m the one you want not her!” The guard ignored him and fixed Kamala with a stare. “No questions” the man said, before grabbing her arm again and leading her towards the door. Something about his voice…no, his accent. It wasn’t American. He pulled her towards the doors and without hesitation pushed them open, uncaring of the sudden white light that poured through and blinded her. Kamala blinked tears from her eyes as she fought to adjust to the change in her environment, but was left wondering if she wouldn’t rather go back to her cell. Donald Trump, flanked by two more security guards, was standing ten feet away, dressed immaculately, his red tie recently pressed and his withered hair groomed to perfection. They were in the White House, she realized, but nowhere the guides had ever taken her. Portraits of each president framed the walls, but it was not the Presidential Gallery. The walls were bare white and the harsh UV lights from the ceiling did not reflect the immaculate interior decorating the rest of the building entailed.

“Kamala” he smiled. “I hope you had a pleasant night?”

The guard released her arm, and she was left standing there, uncertain of what to do. Should she run towards the guard and try to grab his gun? No, that was suicide. Should she run back towards her cell? That would likely only earn her another sucker punch from her steely-eyed captor. She decided to look at Trump instead, fixing him with a glare that she hoped conveyed the disgust and wrath she felt towards him. “What did you do, you monster”.

Trump looked at her with surprise and laughed inwardly. “ _I_ did not do anything, except save the country from an unprecedented political scandal. YOURS was the party committing the voting fraud that led us here”. She couldn’t believe her ears. “Voting…fraud?” she said indignantly. “What voting fraud? The only fraud here was that you got four more years than you deserved! And what, is this some kind of power grab? You can’t win, Donald, the country has spoken and you are done”. She gritted her teeth, unbelieving of the lengths this man was going. He was past sanity, past redemption, and was showing himself for the tyrannical dictator he always aspired to be.

Trump raised an arm as if telling her to stop. “Please, we can nitpick this all day but my guest is waiting and it would really be impolite to keep him”. Kamala paused, her fury slowly diminishing as she struggled to control the situation. “And who, may I ask, are we keeping waiting?”

Trump’s grin stretched from ear to ear, and the only answer she received was a wave of his arm, and the guard once again grabbing her arm and shoving her forwards. Down the brightly lit hallway, up a flight of stairs, through another set of double doors that changed the cold tiled floors to a much more pleasant, rich mahogany. Trump marched her to the doorway of a room, where she spied a lavish array of furniture on top of Persian rugs, animal pelts lining the walls and an assortment of impressive objects such as a grand piano, an aged music box, and a wall lined with antique rifles and swords.

Her eyes settled on the figure in the middle of couch, currently enveloped in a furious discussion with an elderly butler. A fine array of foods covered a nearly twenty-foot dining table, and as Trump led her towards the figure Kamala could scarcely believe her eyes. The penetrating blue of his eyes burned a hole through her, and Kamala felt the impulse to look down but fought it to stare back into the man she knew helped Trump orchestrate this overthrow of democracy. She spat out his name as if uttering a dirty curse word.

“Putin”.


	2. Offer

Putin looked up at her, not deigning to rise from his seat at the head of the table. “Harris” he said. “доброе утро, _Good morning_ …Would you like to sit down?” He proffered her the seat next to him, but she remained standing, visibly shaking with rage. She turned to Trump, fixing him with an accusatory stare. “How could you be working with…with **him**! He’s a murderer, and a sociopath. And the enemy!” In her anger the words spilled out of her mouth faster than she could control them, and she pointed a finger at Putin as if it would make him explode. “This man does not have your best interests at heart, Donald! He’s USING you; can’t you see that?!” Donald raised his hand to stop her before she could continue her tirade. “Kamala, Kamala, Kamala, please don’t insult my guest. President Putin is here because **I** want him to be here. He has pulled more than a few favors to allow this democracy to continue along the path it should, and honestly, I can’t see a reason we shouldn’t trust each other”. He put his hands up in the air for dramatic effect and fixed her with a knowing gaze. “Russia and the United States have a long and wonderful history”. Kamala wasn’t quite sure if Donald knew what he was saying, or if he had quickly downloaded all the Wikipedia entries on Russian-American relations since the Cold War and was simply spouting anything he remembered. Regardless, he was quite clearly fooled by Putin’s performance up till now. Vladimir kept up his expressionless stare, enjoying the scene.

If anything, his reaction cooled her down. This wasn’t an opponent that would react to rage, nor would it help her to continue antagonizing him. Kamala grabbed the head of the chair, yanking it back and plunking herself down. The delicious assortment of freshly-prepared meats, fruits, and vegetables in front of her made her mouth water despite the scenario she was in, and Kamala extended her hand towards a steak knife besides a plate of sausages. The thought flashed in her head, only for a moment, to grab the knife and stab her foe, ending this charade in one fell swoop, but she resisted. She knew Putin’s past, his extended service in the KGB. There was no way she could manage to so much as cut him before she was not only restrained but likely shot by the guards. So she resisted the violent impulse, but was left with her hand dangling in the air, unsure of what to choose.

“The croissants are excellent; I recommend you try one”. Putin’s eyes still followed her, and she could tell her helplessness delighted him from the mirth in his voice, even if it never reached his lips. “Didn’t your mother”, Kamala gritted her teeth, instead clenching the knife and stabbing a poor sausage, “ever tell you not to play with your food?” She felt his eyes following her every move, and shivered. It felt like she was being both judged and convicted without so much as hearing a verdict. She looked up at him, and forced herself to speak evenly. “What do you want from me?” She spoke directly to Putin, identifying him as the alpha male of this pair.

“It is less of what I want, and more what your country needs”, he replied, eyeing the poor sausage. “America is on the brink of collapse. You were not awake to see the full effects of last night’s… _coup_ of the Presidential race. The world outside these walls is very different, and will from this point on always _be_ different, because of what President Trump has succeeded in doing. Every senator, every state representative, every JUDGE” he paused, sucking in a breath, “has, with some persuasion, declared the Democratic Party’s voting scandal a shameful scam and stated Donald Trump as the winner. Now it is time for you to do the same”. She stared back at Putin in disbelief, all of her quick retorts and witty remarks meaningless in the face of the truth. “Donald, what have you done” she said, her face paling. “I thought…you just kidnapped us, but…the whole country?” Trump put his hands behind his back, nodding serenely. “It took a long time, and there were some bumps along the way, of course, but now those, those have been smoothed over and the results are clear. I’m President. And the American people ought to hear it, not just from me, but from you and Joe as well.

“Oh, so they’ll just fall in line then” she laughed in disbelief. “If there’s one thing Americans don’t do, it’s listen to the high and mighty order them around like ants. They’ll revolt, once they hear how you kidnapped me and Joe. And there were at least five hundred people at that party last night. You’re telling me not a single one leaked that to the press? How will the WORLD judge you, Donald?”

“However they please” Trump smiled. “I think the world is much more concerned with our trade deals, and our military technology, and our economy than how its leaders get elected. Do you think China’s government acts any better? What about Mexico, or Saudi Arabia, or Brazil? It’s all. About. The money. And we have it. And they want it. And, about your revolutionary American pride, it’s been an awfully quiet morning considering how many operations we had. In fact, not a single major news media outlet has reported anything else except the scandal”. Trump slid his IPhone from his suit pocket, showing her the latest stories from CNN and Fox. It was true. And she couldn’t believe it.

Kamala sat back in her chair, stunned. Trump took the opportunity to sit down on the other side of her, sandwiching her between himself and Putin. It made her extremely uncomfortable but under the circumstances there was nothing she could do except try to keep a straight face and not reveal the desperate panic she felt. She decided to speak to keep control of the conversation. “You said ‘my country needs me’? she questioned while looking down at her lap. “Why? I’m the Vice-President Elect of the United States. I’m the last thing holding this country’s democracy together, and I’m here in this hidden room eating sausages and talking to you. Why not just kill me?”

Putin glared at her, but a look from Trump left him brooding in his chair. Trump looked back at her, responding, “You’re alive, Kamala, because this country needs strong leadership. I want you to become a part of the next great American government. What I saw in four years was a country divided. I couldn’t do anything as President, anything without the media breathing down my neck, this week calling me racist and the next calling me a xenophobe. My programs, my projects, my ideas were cut off every step of the way, wasting BILLIONS of taxpayer dollars because of stupid politics” “Billions” he repeated, as if that loss of revenue was somewhat tear-jerking. “That’s all gone now. Because of me. Because someone finally took CHARGE of this country and grabbed it by the balls. With your support, and Joe’s support, we can finally get things done”.

Without missing a beat, she replied “Spoken like a true politician. And if I refuse?” Putin’s anger, held in check until that point, spilled out. He grabbed a handgun from the deep confines of his suit and pointed it at her head. He cocked it, and Kamala, who’s heart had started racing, clearly hearing the round slide into the chamber. “Then you die”. He held the gun like that for what felt to her like an eternity, enjoying her frozen eyes focused squarely on its muzzle. Her heart caught in her throat and her mouth hung open, but still she said nothing. Putin slowly decocked his gun and laid it on the table edge next to her. “Along with your family. And their family. And perhaps, if it’s needed, their family. It can be quite messy but we have the means of tracking them down and keeping it quiet” he stretched his lips into a smile, not unlike a serpent. “It is your choice, _Senator_ Harris”.

After a pause, she licked her lips. They had become mysteriously dry. “So, if I refuse, I die. But if I accept, my family, will be safe” she breathed out. It was difficult for her to process, and Trump, noticing her condition, rose from his seat and offered her his hand. “You know, I think it’s best if you have some time to think about it. Joe was offered the same deal. Once you’ve talked it through, I’m sure it will make more sense”. It was an uncharacteristically nice gesture from the President, and it caught the already-shaken Kamala by surprise. He wasn’t offering her a way out, but at least he was giving her some time. Rather than waste his sudden good grace, she took his hand and rose from the seat, feeling much safer from Putin at a distance. “Thank you. I will”. Dropping her gaze from the Russian President, she turned her back as the guard grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her back towards the direction of her cell. Down the flight of stairs, until the ground once again became a cold white hue and the lights stopped reflecting a warm glow. The hallway with the Presidential portraits, and eventually the doors which swung open into darkness, an empty void that she and the guard crossed until they arrived at her cell. Hinges squealed and her chains rang against themselves as the guard adjusted her shackles and locked them in place, then stepping outside and locking her door. The abject darkness of her surroundings blinded her once again, and Kamala stood, alone, while she waited for the guard’s retreating footsteps with baited breath. It wasn’t until they had stopped echoing entirely, and the double doors at the end had stopped swinging, that she released her pent-up emotions in a long, shaky sigh. The bed next to her, something she had not had time to appreciate before, was at least covered by sheets and even a comforter. The pillow, too, was surprisingly soft, and Kamala wondered just how little time their captors had had to throw together her accommodations. A toilet and sink opposite the bed at least belied the age of the cells, as their yellowed and cracked surfaces spoke in decades, not years.

“Is the guard gone?” a voice whispered from her back, and Kamala once again heard the President’s….no, Joe’s voice from behind her cell wall. “Yes” she replied. “I just…I just had a conversation with Vladimir _Putin_ in the White House dining hall. He…he threatened me with a gun, and Trump…oh god Trump’s apparently taken over the entire country…”

“I heard the same damn things” Biden replied, the bitterness in his voice hard to miss. “You’re not still hurt, are you?” Hearing him, Kamala felt her ribs, still sore but nothing that felt seriously broken. She wasn’t a doctor by any means, but if her ribs were broken, she felt like she’d know. “It hurts but it’s not too bad…Joe what happened? I just…how could he have even done this. There are hundreds of thousands, no, millions of people working for the federal government every day. How could he get to every single one of them in one night?”

Kamala just shook her head to herself, at a loss for words, before remembering he couldn’t see her. “And I don’t want to know how many of those people are dead now, because of us”.

“This is not because of us, Kamala”. She couldn’t see him but Kamala imagined how Joe’s face wrinkled up in denial. “This is because Trump couldn’t handle giving away the power he’s clung on to for four years. He couldn’t handle the democratic process. And I doubt he could have orchestrated all…all of this without Putin pulling the strings. If there’s anyone to blame here, it’s him. He saw an opportunity in Trump, and somehow, he got to him.

“Huh” Kamala laughed. “I’d like to see his email servers”. That at least elicited a chuckle from him, likely the last for a long while, she mused. “So” she said, looking around her cell. “I never received the White House dungeon tour, did you? How old do you think this place is?” She got off the bed and peered down as far as the little bit of light in the space allowed, but it wasn’t far, perhaps ten feet at most. “Oh, I’d say the ‘50s, just about” Biden quipped. “I’m old enough to remember my father telling me the danger those Commie bastards posed, how every school, every hospital, every _library_ even ought to have jail cells ready to put anyone away suspected of being a spy. It looks like the White House actually took him up on it, although why I wasn’t made aware of it when I was Vice President, I don’t know. Maybe Barack didn’t know either. It’s not exactly held up to today’s prison standards, now is it”. It was almost impossible to believe, Kamala thought, that a space this large had managed to elude the public eye for over 60 years.

“Do you think there are any other prisoners down here?” she said. There was a pause before Biden said “No. At least, if there are, they don’t want to talk to us. I shouted and shouted, and haven’t heard a single soul down here besides you. Whatever Trump’s plan is, he doesn’t want us with anyone else”.

Kamala had been avoiding bringing it up, but now there didn’t seem to be a choice. “So, what did he offer you?” she asked, afraid of the answer. “He told me” Biden started, “He told me I could walk out of here myself if I just told the American people that I had lied to them, that I had full knowledge of the votes being faked, and that I believed Donald Trump should remain in office indefinitely. I could hardly believe it. I told him…I told Trump he might as well shoot me now, because it’d save the both of us a lot of trouble!” Biden laughed, a mirthless laugh but a laugh nonetheless. “And then Putin pulled his gun on me and told me that it wasn’t just about me, that my family, and my family’s family, would all be dead if I said no. And then it became a lot less about me and a lot more about them”. His voice quieted as his thoughts turned back to those dark memories. “And then Donald intervened and told me to think about it. I was back here and nearly asleep when you woke up”.

His story confirmed her suspicions. “What happened to you, Joe, that’s exactly what happened to me. They’re playing us. They want to get us scared so we agree to do what they say”.

“Do we have a choice?” he responded, quietly. An awkward silence filled the air between them as neither person wanted to admit their guilt in thinking it over seriously. “If it was just me…” Kamala started, “If it was just me, I would have pulled that trigger myself. But it’s not, and Trump and Putin know that, and fuck, it’s working. I can’t sacrifice my families just because I’m in danger. That’s the opposite of courage, that’s stupidity”. “It’s not stupidity”, said Joe, “when it’s for a cause greater than either us or our families. They would know that. But I agree. I’m ready, and willing, to die for this country. But I have grandchildren, who haven’t had the chance to spend their lives doing what they want, how they want to. I can’t take that away from them, or anyone else, because of who I am”. Kamala nodded in acceptance. It was a hard decision to swallow, but given their options it wasn’t a very difficult choice. “So we do what he says, and for now…we’ll be safe”. Her musings were cut off by Biden’s abrupt coughing, and for the 100th time Kamala wondered to herself of his health. “Caught a cold, Joe?” “Blast it” he muttered, wiping his nose. “Of all things to get me in the end, I knew it would be a cold”. He shivered to himself, despite the warmth of the room. “Here” Kamala took the top cover off her bed, and pushed the tip of it through the bars of her cell. “I don’t need this, and you sound like you do”.

“Thanks” was his reply, followed by an abrupt sneeze. “I wonder how-“

His last thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the doors at the end of the hall swinging open, and light once again reaching their distant cells. A figure moved briskly towards them, carrying on either hand a large platter. Setting it down besides Kamala’s cell, she didn’t have to wait to wonder what it was as the wonderful aroma of warm, freshly cooked chicken filled the darkness around her. Her mouth watered and her stomach groaned, remembering the breakfast she had stubbornly refused. “Lunch” was the guard’s only remark as he unlocked her cell and placed the first platter, replete with utensils, besides her. Noticeably a knife was missing from the set, however this only filled Kamala with a sense of glee, having them imagine her as a credible threat boosting her ego. After her shackles were unlocked and the guard moving onwards to Joe, she opened the platter and beheld the rich array of mashed potatoes, chicken breast, gravy, and peas as if it was food from heaven itself. Along with a single sausage. One with a hole already poked in it. She grinned, knowing now that it was personal. All the better. Putin could be antagonized, even if he didn’t let it show. The guard set Biden’s food down along with the same treatment, and left the pair without another word. He was probably given orders not to talk to either of them, or even to touch them. On some level Kamala knew it was all an act, but the hunger in her stomach betrayed her desire for food and security. The next few minutes were filled with the sounds of eating, utensils scraping against metal, and light conversation as the both of them talked about their families. Kamala’s step children who she thought of as her own, and Joe’s four from his two marriages. Along with seven (7!) that he could worry and fret over as if they were his own. It almost made her forget how terrible everything truly was.

After they had finished, and promised to each other to do everything they could to resist Trump’s plans even if they couldn’t openly oppose them, they decided to get some sleep. Lying on top of her all-too-soft mattress, Kamala wondered what the next few days would hold in store for her while Trump was up there, working around the clock to build his newly founded empire.


	3. No Choice

Her chains rattled. Kamala shifted, pulling the sheets over her shoulder and attempting to latch back onto the fleeting dream she had been so wonderfully enveloped in. Alas, the moment the chilly morning air hit her cheek, she opened her eyes and breathed out a sigh. No more hiding in the depths of her mind today. Her wrists ached, sore from where her shackles constantly rubbed against bare skin, but she ignored the pain and sat up, pushing the sheets back to the edge of the bed. Her nightgown, one of the few pieces of clothing provided to her, was a crumpled mess, but even without a mirror Kamala knew her face and body were in far worse shape. It was her third day sleeping in the cell with only two changes of clothes to accompany it, and no shower. She stunk, but there hadn’t been any chance for her to deal with it. Besides her meetings with Trump, some of which included Putin while others were just the two of them, she had been confined to her cell with only Joe as a companion. Even in their circumstances, having a cellmate who knew her fears, who was living them alongside her, comforted her greatly, and Kamala was grateful for it even if it was simply a trick. She could barely see her surroundings without the aid of the dawn’s light, but Joe’s snoring could still be heard from around her cell wall. She was happy that her movements hadn’t awoken him. At least one of them deserved a peaceful rest.

A pang of guilt hit her, one of many since yesterday. Trump had asked the pair for their decision, together. Kamala had simply given a small nod, unable to get the words out of her mouth. Biden nodded as well, adding a “But don’t think this is the end, Donald” along with a glare, to which Trump responded with a mock “Of course not!” She wondered why they were still keeping them locked up in these cells, if they were willing to help. Perhaps Donald didn’t quite trust their word yet, a thought which she couldn’t quite blame him for. As scary as it sounded, she knew if she was in his position, she would not be so lenient with her prisoners. Trump didn’t mind if they overheard him talking to one politician or another about his plans to pump the media full of fake news, or if he was complaining about an ambassador who had been overseas and was having “flight difficulties” which stopped them from returning home. To him, the first stage of his grand plans had been accomplished, and therefore called for an air of celebration and relaxation. She could only hope he would continue to put her in his good graces.

Today was also a special day. It was Kamala’s first chance to see the outside world since her capture. Trump had laid out his plans for her regarding Biden’s upcoming speech to the public, where he would revoke his ballot from the presidential race despite the early claims of his victory practically sealing the outcome. She would stand besides Trump, behind Biden, in a show of solidarity of both parties. Trump had reasoned that both needed to show unity to convince the American people that their elected leaders wanted this. “ _It totally isn’t the fact that we’ll be held at gunpoint”_ she thought bitterly. Any false moves, Donald had warned her, and snipers on the rooftops of buildings in the distance would pick them off immediately before they could so much as scream. It had already been planned to look like the work of some “revolutionary citizen” and not that of a well-trained, government-paid marksman. Kamala felt a crushing sense of despair at her situation. Whatever hopes she had dreamt of reaching the American people, of uniting them against their oppressors, was dashed. Even her death would only serve to further Trump’s goals, and she would never, ever let herself become a martyr for the wrong side.

After the speech, Trump had asked her to accompany him for the day taking notes during his meetings, his speeches, and interviews. She was not allowed to speak unless Trump explicitly allowed it. Otherwise, she was to act as if she had not heard the question. Slipping off the nightgown and into her prepared formal attire, she muttered to herself about his treatment of women. Because of her frustration, she failed to notice the _clip-clapping_ of the guard as they quickly traversed the tiled floor until he was right outside her cell. Half-dressed, Kamala turned and quickly held up the remains of her dress as a screen. The guard coughed and then said “The President requests that you bathe, now. You will have ten minutes to finish and be fully dressed before the ceremony”. He unlocked her cell, moving forward and releasing her from the wall-mounted chain but not the shackles holding her wrists close together. She looked at him with a desperate plea evident in her eyes, but he ignored her and turned to Biden’s cell. He grabbed a baton from his belt and banged it against the cell bars, causing a horrible reverberating drum-like echo that rang in Kamala’s ears. Because of her shackles, she was forced to bend down to her knees and curl her head inwards in the vain hopes of blocking the noise out. She heard Joe’s immediate scrambling as he shot up, wide awake, still dazed and half-asleep. _“At his age a scare like that might kill him”_ Kamala thought. The guard repeated the same message and unlocked his cell door as well, scarcely giving Joe any time to change. After a few moments of fumbling and cursing, the guard took the pair of them from their cells, down the hallway, and up the stairs once again. The change in scenery now failed to elicit any joy out of Kamala, for she knew she would eventually end up back down in the darkness. They turned down a different corridor than previously, and found themselves at the door of a bathing club. There was a front desk, with a staff member manning the chair who smiled nervously at the pair while averting his eyes. He started to say something but quickly stopped when the guard moved the pair forwards with the tip of his baton. “Two prisoners who require bathing. Make sure they don’t take more than ten minutes. I will be outside” the guard uttered, before exiting the room and leaving the trio alone. Kamala couldn’t begin to imagine the thoughts swirling around the nervous staff member as he awkwardly put his arm on Biden’s shoulder, guiding him towards the men’s corridor.

Kamala couldn’t stand seeing the President-elect in such circumstances, but looking down at her wrists she realized how difficult any shower would be with those horrid cuffs on. She abruptly turned around, and banged the edges of her cuffs against the door, wincing as the edges bit into her skin. It immediately swung open, and Kamala found herself face to face with the guard’s scary, unmoving eyes. Her arms were still raised as if to knock, and so she waved them in the air to show him the difficulty. “I can’t take a shower with these on. Neither of us can”. She was afraid of saying more, lest he deliver another blow to her ribs. The guard looked at her and the terror in his eyes slowly faded as his thoughts of her trying to escape dissipated. “No prisoners are allowed to take their shackles off unless the President allows it” he stated gruffly. “But how are we supposed to properly clean ourselves…how can we prepare for the ceremony if we don’t look well-treated? What would the President say if we looked like this in front of a crowd of people?” She gestured to herself as she spoke. She could see the cogs slowly turning in his mind, and after nodding he produced the key and unlocked her shackles. Kamala rubbed her aching wrists which were still so sensitive to the touch. Her dress, of course, would cover those areas, but nothing could alleviate the pain.

The guard moved towards Joe and did the same before stepping outside. “Ten minutes” he repeated, before closing the door. Biden looked at Kamala and chuckled. “You’ve got more fire in you than me, that’s for sure”. His complement brought a smile to her face, and Kamala rejoiced at this first, tiny victory. She nodded at him before walking down the women’s corridor and towards the showers, which were entirely empty. The spa – this place could only be described as a spa – must not be officially open yet, the perfect time to have the prisoners use it without being seen by the other staff. She moved towards the nearest shower faucet, undressing and entering the small space inside. Her hands trembled as they fiddled with the knob, and the jet of hot water that shot out elicited a small gasp of surprise mixed with joy. Her whole body now trembled as it soaked in the water’s warmth and she stood there for a full minute, enjoying the sensation of days of built up sweat and dirt being washed away. Remembering the guard’s orders, she quickly scrubbed her body down, taking care not to miss an inch of skin. As a prisoner, who knew the next time she would be afforded such a luxury. Regretfully, she turned the water off, taking one of the nearby towels off a rack and drying herself. Feeling fresh and rejuvenated, she slipped on the dress and shoes and walked out to meet both Joe and her guard, who seemed to be counting down the seconds of his watch. Somewhat disappointedly, she had stayed under the ten-minute mark, so he had no choice but to simply nod and recuff them. The trio left the nervous staff member, and proceeded back the way they had come, then back up the stairs until they turned into the pronounced, decadent hues she remembered. This time they went somewhere Kamala actually recognized; the White House Balcony.

The moment she stepped outside Kamala heaved a sigh of relief. The morning air, still cool but slowly warming from the sun’s rays, tickled her face, and the fresh scent of Magnolias, Japanese Thread leaf Maples, and American Elms made her heart ache. She could see a crowd gathering behind a police line far off in the distance, and to her surprise there was a complete lack of protest or rioting to be had. Rather, the crowd was quiet, waiting with baited breath to see if the rumors they had been hearing about their government were actually true. Donald Trump was there already, standing next to an assortment of aides with a script in hand. The aides stood nervously, not daring to take a second to glance at the newcomers as the President casually called on their advice. Surprisingly, someone else was here, someone Kamala had not been expecting. Melania Trump flanked her husband, her arm casually sitting on his shoulder while laughing at his objectively-unfunny remarks. Kamala could not see what that woman saw in Donald besides a bigoted monster, but perhaps that said something of herself as well. It’s not unheard of that opposites attract, though, and given the difference in their ages she believed there must be quite a few differences between them. Kamala looked down as the First Lady’s eye caught hers, not wanting to become the center of attention in this already tension-filled room.

Alas, it was not to be. Melania gave a small gasp at seeing the cuffs on both her and Joe’s wrists, and immediately demanded to the guard to uncuff them. “Senator Harris”, Melania smiled at her, a warm smile that didn’t betray the same mocking nature of her husbands’. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. And Vice President Biden, it is always a pleasure to meet you as well”. Kamala tried to reply while the guard was busy uncuffing her with a “Thank you, Mrs. Trump”, but it came out more of a “Thanks, Mrs.-” before Donald walked over to them and interrupted. “Melania, dear, you always did have a soft spot”. He caressed her cheek, something that Kamala found very un-Trump like. Perhaps even monsters could be tamed with the right person. He looked at the pair and nodded to the guard, who stepped back and stationed himself at the door. “The ceremony will begin in ten minutes. Joe, I hope you remember your lines”. Indeed, Trump had given the former Vice-President a short passage, scarcely a minute in length, but Biden had spent the entire evening memorizing it, ingraining it into the back of his mind until he could speak the words in his sleep. Even a minor slip-up risked the life of his family, something he couldn’t allow. Melania took Kamala’s arm, guiding her towards a column where the cameras would capture them together. Donald’s shoulder somewhat obscured her from the public view, but right now she wanted nothing more than to disappear. Knowing the threat of a simple mistake, she was thankful now that only Joe had a spot in the limelight.

The cameras were due to roll in a minute, giving Kamala and Melania a moment alone. Kamala wasn’t sure there was anyone in the room, besides Trump, who she had less in common with, so making a casual conversation was more difficult than you would think. Thankfully Melania came to her rescue. “So, what do you think of all this?” she beamed brightly, as if “all this” was a home improvement project and Kamala was her devoted friend giving her opinion. “I…I’m not sure what you mean” Kamala responded with some hesitation. “Are you asking me how I feel about what Trump has done?” After the shower, and wearing clothes that gave her some semblance of normalcy, Kamala’s spirit was slowly returning to her. She was about to tell Melania exactly what she thought of Trump’s plan when the lead cameraman gave a thumbs up and shouted “5!”. She had no choice but to drop it and stare directly at the camera in solemn silence, as the national anthem played, followed by Trump’s opening remarks. Kamala wasn’t interested in what Trump had to say though. She looked over at Joe, worried about his upcoming role. He was, well, in his own words “cool as a cucumber”, his face taut, back straight, and his eyes projecting a thousand-yard stare. Trump finished up saying what a tremendous job the country had done in discovering the deceit that had almost “destroyed their democracy”, before beckoning for Joe to step forward.

“Thank you, Mr. President” Joe said. “I can’t begin to express my shame, and my Party’s shame, at the role we, along with myself, played in the election…scandal. We were blinded by our…our desire, and in the process stopped caring about the American values that make the Presidential election process so sacred”. He swallowed to himself, his clenched fists balled up at his sides. “I take full responsibility for this, and…and”. “ _Oh no”_ Kamala thought. Joe was choking. Despite his face being obscured from her view, Kamala could hear by the tone of his voice that the internal struggle raging within Joe was forcing itself to the surface, freezing him where he stood and silencing his ability to finish his short segment. With a slight tremble, he squeezed his fists, then slowly unclenched them. He turned, and stared into her eyes before smiling slightly. Turning back, he walked to the edge of the podium before beginning anew, “America I don’t have much time, but you need to know the tru-“.

He was cut off by a single, ear-splitting _crack_ , as if a sonic shockwave had broken next to her eardrums. One moment, Joe was standing, the next his body crumpled to the ground, all the strength and life from his limbs evaporating instantly. Flecks of blood were scattered across the podium he had once clung to, and as Kamala’s brain registered what happened a wall of black suits rushed out towards the President-elect and herself, blocking her from his sight. “Joe!” she screamed, uncaring of the consequences. “Joe, no!” Hands grabbed her arms from behind, pulling her backwards underneath the balcony’s ceiling. She could only glimpse them hoisting his body by the arms and legs onto a stretcher, assisted by guards which Kamala knew worked for Putin. It was a lie, a setup to fool the cameras that captured all of this in a heartbeat.

In the distance, shouts of denial and screams of panic could be heard amidst the crowd, which had vastly swelled in size while Trump’s opening remarks minutes before. The police barricade was intact, but as thousands upon thousands of angered citizens realized the full extent of what happened, they pressed upon it like a wave crashing against an imposing cliff. Kamala heard a man whisper an order into a mic nearby, and suddenly there were flashes, plumes of smoke and bright lights that popped and rang throughout the crowd. Armored cars appeared on either edge, deploying scores of shielded riot squads who created more barricades against the tide. Slowly, the mass of people was pushed and corralled until they had nowhere to go but backwards, as the surrounding streets had been cut off. Kamala’s shoulder was grabbed the moment the cameraman gave the “all-clear” sign, and she was moved back indoors along with Joe’s body. Trump’s face betrayed his anger at the outcome of this majorly publicized event, obviously hoping for a more peaceful, even joyous, response. Still, it had obviously been planned for in advance, and as Joe’s corpse was hauled out of sight, he turned and looked to Kamala. She was being led away, and for the first time they were both out of their respective cells, away in the White House to work for the enemy. Joe’s eyes were vacant, his skin already turning an ashen grey color, lacking any light or spark of life. Trump gave her a side-long glance, miming zipping her lips to which she nodded. His smile at her obedience disgusted her but right now, Kamala wasn’t willing to make enemies, and so smiled back as tears rolled down her face.

The rest of her day continued far less memorably in comparison to the morning’s events. While she had initially been prepared to be carted before the press, the assassination of the President-Elect closed much of Trump’s busy news schedule. D.C. was forced to be shut down and the National Guard called in to restore order. So severe was it that emergency meetings had to be called to address the growing threat of a national revolution. A plethora of military brass, all five-star generals of various branches, assured the President that order was, or would be, restored and that all military bases remained under government control. Kamala simply listened and nodded along as each gave their report, but as the last one left and her mind had turned to lunch, _he_ entered the room. Putin’s eyes made contact with Kamala’s as he swiftly walked past her, settling himself down in a chair opposite herself and the President. She glared back at him, unafraid of his childish intimidation tactics. “President Trump”, he stated, folding his hands together and resting them on the table. “The situation, as it stands, is somewhat tense. There is a large amount of misinformation concerning the validity of your presidency. As your generals informed you, the rebel groups being reported popping up around the country, each calling itself the true United States government, have mostly been dealt with. Unfortunately, the largest and most… _problematic_ group, calling themselves the Founders, killed a lot of our men before their leaders surrendered. Whether or not they know it to be true, they guessed the truth about this operation. In my opinion, they should be publicly executed”. He sat back in his chair; eyes fixed solely on the President. Kamala stared at him, disgusted with the composed nature which he sentenced men to their deaths. She couldn’t help herself from speaking up. “A public execution is a terrible idea! That’s only going to incite more violence!” Putin looked at her, his expression a mix of anger and shock.

“I did not ask for the opinion of a servant” he sneered. “Shut up”. Trump glanced at her before waving her offense off. “It’s alright, Vladimir, it’s why she’s here. Unlike everyone else at least she speaks her mind!”

Although she knew she shouldn’t be happy, or even want to seek his approval, his commendation encouraged her. Trump continued, “The last thing this country needs is a martyr, right? Someone to get behind and use as a symbol against me? The men will still die, of course, but holding it publicly could be too far”.

“And to not show the people who is in power, is also a sign of weakness. The people will know about what this group did, and try it themselves. Killing them now shows everyone what happens to traitors”, Putin responded. Kamala could see Trump slowly gaining interest in the idea, and despite the danger spoke up again. “Mr. President, hold on” she said, her voice somewhat shaky. “Standing up against someone more powerful, fighting for something you believe in, those are all old American values. This group even existing means more will come no matter what you do. If you want to stop people from becoming violent, you have to stop answering them with violence. These men shouldn’t have to die to prove you’ve won”.

“Mr. President!” Putin snapped. “Please keep your _pet_ under control! Or…” he paused while pushing the sleeves of his jacket up. “I will be more than happy to do so myself”.

Kamala turned to Trump; desperation evident in her voice as she tried to reason with him. “Ignore him, Donald! I’m trying to help you, to _really_ help you here!” Trump sighed to himself, not even looking at her. He waved to a guard stationed at the door. “Take her away, I’ll deal with her later”. Kamala couldn’t believe how casually he switched from complementing and defending her to siding with Putin. The guard grabbed her arm and jerked her up out of her chair, all but carrying her away. She didn’t have time to even turn to look at the pair before the doors were closed again. She felt miserable. All that time spent sitting around, doing nothing, and the moment she speaks up she’s nearly dragged away. It wasn’t hard to wonder where she was being taken, as she descended the steps leading to her cell. Even the transition from blinding white to pure darkness wasn’t as uncomfortable as it once was, and Kamala was happy to be alone. The guard reattached her chains, both to her wrists and to the walls, and left her alone with her thoughts.

Kamala wondered what was happening in the chaotic environment above her. She had already been brought lunch, and surmised that dinner couldn’t be far away. That’s why, when she heard steps coming from the direction of the door, she believed it could only be her nightly rations from the kitchen. However, when she looked up and saw Trump’s face, staring down at her, curiously quiet, her breath caught in her throat. “What do you want, Donald” she said, not even caring to get up from her bed. He stood outside her cell with an escort in tow. One member moved forwards and unlocked the gate, allowing the President to step inside. “I wanted to talk to you”, he started, “about what happened earlier with Putin. His reaction was too much, and he apologized after you left”. _“I’m sure he did”_ Kamala wanted to say, but kept to herself. “You can tell him I appreciate him apologizing for calling me a pet” she said coldly. “I still think he’s just using you, Donald, and you can’t change that”.

“I think he’s doing what he thinks is right” Donald said slowly. “Even if this country isn’t used to it yet, it will be. I brought you to those meetings to do exactly what you did. I don’t need someone telling me I’m right, when I know I am. I need someone telling me when something is wrong. You can relax, you’re not in trouble”. His words did help, a little, but Kamala still couldn’t take them to heart and “just relax”.

“I can’t relax while I’m still in chains in a basement” she said, looking him directly in the eye. “I can’t relax when there’s a target trained on my forehead 24/7 a day!” Trump looked somewhat surprised, as if just realizing the extent of his surroundings, and the environment she lived in constantly. “Ha! Now that sounds like bargaining!” He gestured to the guard to give him the keys, and grabbed Kamala’s shackle. She hated the President being so close to her, but under the circumstances she had to allow it. The moment her shackles were undone, she rubbed her sore wrists in relief. Trump touched the mark where the cuffs had left, joking to himself “Yes, once we move you up to the guest suite, I’m sure you’ll be much more willing". His touch made her jerk her wrists back, and she looked up at the President with disgust in her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you’ll be willing to work together in the future” Trump breathed out. Despite her reaction to his touch he placed his hand on her shoulder. “I know we can do a lot of good together, Kamala. Joe…Biden made his choice”. He patted it before standing back up and giving her space. “Tomorrow morning, after you’re moved, we’ll talk”. Her eyes followed him as he left the room, leaving her unchained but still locked inside. She could smell the rich cologne that permeated Trump’s body, and feel the hand that pressed down on her shoulder. The way he said “willing” made her want to gag with disgust. The whole ordeal felt surreal, one day her family being threatened and the next, she was almost treated like a guest. She didn’t know what Trump’s game was, but she had no doubt that her being a woman influenced how he treated her. Perhaps…perhaps she could use that. Use it to control him, like he controlled her.

“No, no, no”, she hugged her arms tight around her body and shook her head. She refused to lower herself like that. If anything, Trump wanted her to, and the last thing she would do is give him what he wants. It was disgusting enough having him near her, but to play to his sexual desires? She would rather die.

Dinner hadn’t come. Kamala had already been worried – she was always worried in their present circumstances – but now she was deathly afraid. Her routine was the only information she had control over, and she knew, once that was gone, there was nothing left she could plan for. Any moment, someone might come through those ominous double doors, walking down the hallway to deliver the bullet that would end her suffering. The moment the doors _did_ swing open, she sat up out of her bed and peered into the distance. Not two, just one…one person strode towards her, with purpose. Putin. Somehow, he had found his way down towards this place, likely given directions by his men. He peered into her cell, not saying a word, just letting the smile on his lips chill her to the bone, until…

“They’ll be dead by the end of the week”.

No. Not his family. Not Joe’s sons, and daughters, and grandchildren. Not his wife. Kamala couldn’t stop the tears from sliding down her cheeks as she shook her head in denial. “You’re lying”, she said, trying to fight her body from showing weakness in front of this monster. “Donald will let them live, and you know it”. Putin looked at her, with something almost close to pity. “What a fragile way to live…” he spoke slowly, “to value every life so closely”. Something about his words confirmed the truth. Putin had no reason to lie to her other than to torture her, but Kamala didn’t believe he cared about her enough for that. “Why are you telling me this?” she spoke between sobs.

“So that you don’t make the same mistake he did. His family is going to die now, because of him. Yours shouldn’t have to end the same”. With that he turned and walked back towards the light, looking for all the world like an angel ascending to heaven. A dark, terrifying angel.


	4. To Serve at the Pleasure

“ _Joe’s dead”_. It was a thought that never escaped her, not when she slept, not when she ate, not when she worked. He was dead, murdered, and nobody else in the free world knew the truth of it besides her. Kamala stared at the sunny-side up eggs and toast on the plate in front of her, not moving a single muscle to eat despite the grumbling in her stomach. She was perched on the edge of her bed, sitting cross-legged on a pile of crumpled linens and covers with her head bowed and hair hanging loosely around her. It was not the bed of her dingy cell, but of one of the Presidential guest suites typically reserved for foreign dignitaries or members of the Cabinet whose work spilled late into the night and made a trip home impossible. A desk was situated near the windows, replete with office supplies, a phone hooked up to the in-house landline she was allowed to call, and a chair so comfy Kamala had hated herself for sighing when she first sat in it. Her bedside lamp and alarm clock, and shelves filled with interesting reads on foreign affairs, would have once filled her with joy. Light cascaded warmly through high-rising windows, casting a shallow glow that covered every surface and object, including herself. The animated chirping of blue jays and finches from outside completed the wholly serene picture, with Kamala’s mind being the only source of negativity present. For every luxury that surrounded her now though, his face flashed in front of her. She was here, while he was…gone. She was living in the lap of luxury while the man who had given everything to his country had made the ultimate sacrifice.

Nobody had told Kamala what Joe had done to deserve his death, only Putin’s remark of it being “inexcusable” leaving her to wonder if Joe’s resolve had finally worn thin or if his usefulness had simply come to an end. In the Trump Administration, what purpose was there for wasting money on a useless body? Kamala grinded her teeth, imagining the many ways she would get her revenge, some legal, some not. When she was alone like now, her eyes were inexplicably drawn towards the phone at her desk. Trump had assured her that all of her calls were monitored 24/7, which as a general security precaution made sense. It also told her that making a call for help was practically suicide, both for herself and whoever she called.

In the last two days since she had been transferred to her current room, her thoughts were plagued by fears for Joe’s family. How quickly could Trump have killed them? How hard had it been to cover up? The question that ate at her mostly though, was why? Unlike the groups they had been discussing retaliations against, to send a message, Joe was dead and Trump was attempting, unsuccessfully, to boost his public image. A publicity stunt like that would shatter whatever faith his loyal supporters still held and turn the entire country against him. The only other person their deaths could hurt now, was her. And Kamala didn’t believe herself important enough for the President to go to such extremes. Definitely, there was something she was missing here, an idea that pulled at her from the corners of her mind, but she couldn’t quite grab hold of it before it inevitably slipped away.

She sighed, screwing her eyes shut and blocking out the morning light. With a great mental effort, she pulled herself out of her dreary thoughts and got up from the bed, dressed for the day, and headed towards the Oval Office. Presently, she was expected at 9:00AM sharp, regardless of week or weekend. She didn’t dare be late for fear of whatever repercussions Trump and Putin had in store for her, hoping it would spite whatever sick joy they took out of her misery. Some days, she just sat there, watching him make decisions that affected tens of millions of Americans as carelessly as deciding which tie matched his suit. Construction on the southern border wall had begun again in earnest as funds were rerouted quickly from programs the President had previously disproved of but had to endure. Obamacare had been repealed yesterday, and Trump had had her smiling for cameras while more than 20 million Americans were now left with no coverage and little means to get it. Her opinion seemed of arbitrary importance to him, as if his mood was the sole factor in determining whether he did or didn’t want her perspective that day

This morning, however, was different. As she approached his office, she heard shouting from the other side of the door. There was only one voice, Trump’s, but it was filled with anger. Slightly muffled thanks to the thickness of the walls which separated them, but Kamala could tell he was arguing furiously, despite the fact that his was the only voice. She decided to wait right until 9:00, but fear motivated her more than his present state of mind, and she pushed on the door and entered. He was seated at his desk, face red with the receiver gripped in his right hand and brows furrowed in frustration. His other hand was busy gesturing, what little good that did. She waited near the doorframe until Trump had finished cowing the person on the other end of the line into submission, before slamming the phone back onto the receiver with a triumphant “HMMPH”. He looked up, just now noticing her presence. “Kamala” he said dryly. “There’s no need to look so afraid. Take a look at the planner for today and tell me if any of these meetings are unnecessary”. He grabbed a red binder marked “For the President’s Eyes Only” from the edge of his desk and offered it to her, leaving Kamala to wonder yet again at his lenient attitude towards her. She flipped through it, scanning the page for anything seriously unconstitutional. Her eyes spotted a header that made her jaw drop, and her hands started to tremble with a mix of hope and fear. It was titled “Security Briefing Regarding Prisoner 1 Family. Secured and Awaiting Approval”. Prisoner 1. That had been Joe. Kamala remembered from the second day she had been in her cell, when the guard came with food but the two of them had been asleep. “Prisoner 1!” he had barked while banging his baton against Joe’s cell repeatedly. “Prisoner 2!” he had said referring to herself. So, if this was true…Joe’s family wasn’t dead. At least, not yet.

She looked up from the binder and eyed Trump warily. His complexion had returned to normal since his earlier outbursts over the phone, but she still was uneasy speaking up against him. His mood was that much of a wild card. “President Trump”, she started, using his real title, “Joe Biden’s family is…alive?”

His eyes gazed quickly at the planner and she could tell he had made a mistake allowing her to read that. “Yes” he replied shortly. “But not for much longer. I’m nothing if not a man of my word, and everyone will see that when I make a promise, I will follow it through to the end”. His curt reply signaled an end to the topic, but Kamala was suddenly imbued with a sense of urgency, along with a rush of adrenaline. She couldn’t help Joe, not now, but she would do anything to save his family. “Donald” she replied softer this time, hoping it would calm him. “Whatever Joe did…was wrong. But his family…his wife, his children, _their_ children…are innocent. They’ve done nothing against you. Even if you cover it up, their friends will know. And they’ll spread rumors that even all the media denial in the world won’t stop from spreading. You _have_ to let them live”.

Trump sighed as he looked at the binder and then at her. “You aren’t the President, Kamala. You don’t have the expectations I do on your shoulders. There’s nothing you can say that will change my mind even if I personally disagree with Putin’s tactics. But they are effective”. Putin, of course it was Putin. Kamala wanted to grind her teeth and curse his name but she refrained. Instead, she did something that shocked even herself. “Donald” she whispered, lowering her voice further. Before she knew it, she was around his desk, standing in front of him. “I will do…anything… _anything_ , to save them”. The words had left her mouth quicker than she could phrase them, and Kamala herself questioned what she was saying. Why was she putting herself in this position? What would she gain?

 _Their lives_. Those were the words that stopped her from freezing then and there. She hadn’t been there to stop Joe from dying before, but in his memory, she swore she would do whatever it took to keep his legacy alive. Trump’s eyes, before distant and unfocused, were suddenly fixated on her, and Kamala knew she had his undivided attention. She walked closer, measuring her steps in time with her voice. “I don’t care what you do to me, but I will do whatever it takes to keep Joe’s family alive”. Trump’s eyes were alert, bouncing between her and her body. She hated the obvious way he lusted over her, but it had the intended effect of drawing his attention away from the binder, and solely onto her. She stopped right in front of him, hoping it would stop him from thinking too long about his choice. Summoning all of her willpower, she knelt down, onto her knees, in front of him and begged. “Please”.

Trump was quiet for now, but his open mouth and obvious shock were a positive sign to the President-elect. Then suddenly, he laughed, a short, loud laugh that started as a trickle but increased in strength until he was bent over, wheezing in his chair while she kneeled there, stunned. Trump got up from his chair, towering over the kneeling woman. “Well”, he finally said, breaking the silence, “that sounds like a deal I can make”. He grinned, but that wasn’t the only thing betraying his eagerness. The bulge in his pants gave away just how willing he was, and Kamala had to fight the sudden urge in her stomach to throw up as the previous rush of adrenaline faded away. She looked up at him, for the first time with fear in her eyes. Trump returned her stare, and suddenly she realized what he wanted her to do. “Remember Kamala”, he said dryly. “You serve at the President’s pleasure… _my_ pleasure”. The impatience in his voice made her think he was growing tired of this game, and with shaky hands she reached for the belt of his pants. Unlatching it, she grasped the zipper, wishing for all the world she was somewhere else, someone else. She closed her eyes as she pulled them down, thinking of one and only one thing; Joe’s family would be alive, if she could just do this one thing. Opening them, she looked back up at the President, putting on the fakest smile she could muster. “Yes, Mr. President”, she echoed out loud, before pulling down his undergarments and grasping his erect member in her hand. _“Just close your eyes, and do it for America”_ the voice in her head told her, and continued to tell her while she serviced the President.

It wasn’t until 8:00PM that night that she returned to her room. The entire day had passed in a blur since the morning, and Kamala’s first action was to immediately race to the bathroom and throw up her breakfast. Her lunch had remained untouched, and the dinner which was already waiting for her on a platter only served to make her retch harder. Gripping the edge of the sink, she looked at herself, eyes filled with self-loathing at her weakness and fear that she spied reflecting in her own face. “Disgusting” was all she could murmur aloud, but one thought, one singular thought, raced through her that made the traumatic ordeal worth it. “They’re alive” she repeated to herself, like a mantra. “They’re alive”.


	5. Small Mercies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness on this one, work and finals really got in the way of this latest chapter! New chapters should be much more stable now, once or twice a week. Also thanks for the contributions of MyLoveOfOrangesIsInevitable and for proofreading/editing and calling out my lack of European knowledge xD

The small hand of the clock shifted past 10:00. Her elbows hurt, having rubbed against the wooden desk in her room for several hours. Its surface, while immaculate, was not as smooth as in its prime, and she was certain its texture had imprinted itself onto the sleeves of her clothing. The pain was consistent, grounding her against thoughts of last night's events. It made it so much easier to escape the darkness of her own mind, and nobody would be able to see it and stop her. She whispered "Small mercies", with a bitter laugh, and pressed her head into her hands. Time passed, but she didn't bother to check how long. She had been given work, legal documentation. She hadn't bothered to start it despite knowing Trump's attitude towards punctuality.  
  


The door opened. It was not yet noon, so lunch was out of the question. Not many people wanted to come in and watch the defeated remains of a once beautiful democracy sift through paperwork. Even fewer were allowed to talk to her, likely a condition of her and Trump's agreement. However, from her position at the back of the room, with her head bowed, the footsteps that approached her were not the heavy, thunderous ones of her boss, but soft and quick. She looked up in time to see a silver platter being placed directly in front of her, blocking the documents she had been attempting to busy herself with. She looked into the eyes of a man who was certainly not her usual custodian. Always wearing sunglasses, with lips that had forgotten how to curl upwards, and eyebrows constantly furrowed in disapproval, the man who guarded Kamala was the same who had delivered her food in the dungeons, and was the same who guarded her in her new chambers. This man, however, wore no glasses, and for one of Trump's guards, had a shockingly open face. Emotion was clearly etched into its features, soft and caring. A close-cut shave betrayed the youth of his years, and brown eyes echoed the concern that she felt emanating from his slightly-bent head and inquisitive gaze. "Senator Harris" he breathed out, as if dazed. Kamala was unsure of what to do, or where to go. Although the man was dressed in the same black uniform she witnessed countless times a day passing her view, his build was leaner, contrasting the typical stockiness of a security guard. "Former Senator" she replied with reproach in her tone and eyes. Whoever this man was, he set off alarm bells in the back of Kamala's skull.

"Hah, yes. Of course. Sorry". His eyes glanced from her to the platter, and back, and Kamala wondered what was concealed within at this hour of the day. Noticing her discomfort, the man smiled and extended a hand in greeting. "I'm a friend" he nodded. "Chase". The awkwardness of his speech increased Kamala's suspicions, and the gangly nature of his build practically confirmed it. "Who are you?" she questioned, leaving his hand to hang limply in front of her. "You're not my guard". The man's face shifted towards surprise, and he looked down at his uniform, picking at a seam of cloth that stood out against its otherwise-crisp appearance. "Well, I am now, or at least, this says I am. Your last warden, uh, Boris, I've gotten to know him over the past few weeks, and well uh, see, he's been complaining constantly about having "prison duty". Chase's speech grew stronger, but what he was saying only confused Kamala further. "I asked him for the chance to switch jobs, and well, it's generally not allowed but the man was desperate. I knew he'd be".

"Hold-Hold on just a moment". Kamala placed her hands in front of her for emphasis, not seeing any reason to fear the man in front of her. "So...you're my guard now? Just like that? And President Trump doesn't know?"

"He never will, if everything works out the way it should" Chase grimaced. "I'd be dead if he did".

"Why?" Kamala's suspicions raised even higher, and she took a second to look Chase over again. His brown hair, while shaved near the point of baldness, looked hastily buzzed near the edges. The uniform was crumpled and baggy, obviously a size too big for him, but his height helped give the sense of imposing power that typically accompanied those who wore it. At first glance, it had driven her fear, but gazing at him now Kamala only saw a young, nervous boy.

"I was a cameraman and cook since last week, and before that I delivered mail through the underground tunnels. I..." Chase paused, as if unsure of how much he wanted to say. "Kamala"-he started, but she stopped him with "Ms. Harris, please".

"Ms. Harris" he repeated, leaning in conspiratorially, "How much do you know about the Founders?"

Her eyes widened at the name. They had been one of the first, and largest, anti-Trump groups which had arisen the night he seized control. She believed all their members had been put to death, some publicly, although of course Kamala only heard of this through her meetings with Donald, where she typically stayed a silent observer.

She repeated what she knew, Chase nodding excitedly as she talked of their size and resilience till the end. "The Founders... _We_ are not dead " he said, slowly, jerking a thumb at his chest. "Not yet, at least".

"And you're one of them? How did you get in?" Kamala was skeptical. A spy, infiltrating the security network of the White House? It felt too simple, too easy to believe, despite her desperately wanting to believe it. "And what do you want from me?"

"This place seems scary, I know. I don't know what Trump has told you, but it's not an airtight system. The whole security network is in disarray, what with Secret Service trying to work with Russian intelligence. It's a mess out there, and the President's too preoccupied trying to keep the country under control to watch his own back yard. People are scared, too, and scared people make mistakes". He grinned, seemingly pleased at himself. "And what do I want from you? To make you a spy, for us".

A spy? Her? But Kamala was already cottoning on to the idea. That didn't mean she supported it, though. "You know I work with Trump every day. You see me go into all his meetings, don't you?" Chase smiled for an answer while nodding in the affirmative. "And nobody else has access to the President like you do". The phrasing, given last night's events, made her want to gag, but she swiftly blocked the memory of it with the chance she saw in front of her. The chance that seemed like a ray of hope in a dense fog of despair, a fog that slowly crushed Kamala's will to resist with every passing day. It was almost too good to be true...Her face paled. It was. It had to be.

"You almost had me" she peered into Chase's eyes – if that was even his real name. "Putin put you up to this, didn't he?" Chase's eyes widened in shock, and his excited energy from before turned into worry as his brow furrowed and his arms extended towards her. "Ms. Harris, no. I know it's a lot to unpack, and you don't need to say yes now-"

"I don't need to say yes to anything" she responded coldly. "I've put my life on the line to make it this far. I walk through these halls every day with a target on my back. I will not do anything to jeopardize the lives of my family, or Joe's. You can tell Putin his little game is up. Now get out".

Chase put his hands in the air in a pleading manner, desperation evident in his eyes. They shifted towards the platter which had until this point remained untouched, and lifting its lid he picked up a curious object that sat alone. It resembled a miniature microphone, one you might find on a movie set, but a reflective, silvery surface on its back gave it a somewhat magnetic quality.

“See, this...this microphone, it works on clothing too. Sticks to anything. We made it ourselves, with materials we smuggled in". He held it in front of her eyes, allowing her a good look. "What we need from you...is anything. You're closest to Trump, you can help us. Help us to put a stop to him".

Kamala's resolve, so fierce a moment before, started to crack. She wanted to, but the suddenness of Chase's arrival, his lack of seriousness...it felt like a poorly created act, or more like a hopeful dream. "I'm sorry, but...no. If you want me to help you, I need proof that I can trust you. I don't have a lot of that right now". Her answer was final, and she met his eyes so he could read it in her face as well as her words.

His shoulders slumped, but Chase gave a small smile regardless. "I understand. I can make that happen, don't you worry. Er, I'll leave, but since I'm your guard now, I won't be far away. Let me know if you need anything". Kamala smiled in return, giving him a small nod of thanks before he shifted away from her and left, exiting the room just as quickly and quietly as he entered. Gazing at his figure as it shrunk into the distance, she again was reminded how different he looked from a typical security guard. If she could notice it, she was sure others would too. The offer that had, a moment ago dangled in the air in front of her like a tantalizing dream, suddenly felt like a lost opportunity, and Kamala wondered if she had been too brash, too sudden. But she couldn't take risks like that, not when hers wasn't the only life on the line. She took the mini-microphone and platter and placed it behind her desk, out of sight and mind, before again busying herself with the droll papers in front of her.

\--

\--

The following morning, she reported to Trump's office at the usual time. She had been afraid what remarks he would make, how he would treat her after last night, but to her surprise his face and demeanor betrayed nothing, nothing besides his typical grumpy, unpleasant mood. He offered the daily planner to her without so much as a glance upwards from his phone and mug of coffee, and thumbs traveled swiftly over a digital screen to shoot out another tweet calling for the arrest and deportation of all illegal immigrants, under penalty of death. "Trumpland", as German Chancellor Angela Merkel had derisively labeled America recently, was quickly taking hold, shaping the landscape to better mold Trump's idealized view of the country under his command.

Kamala stood with the planner tightly gripped in her fingers. She hadn't bothered to check its contents, as something else dominated her mind today. "Mr. President" she started, to which he looked up in surprise, his thumb a millimeter away from tapping "send". "I want to see my husband".

"Your wha..." he gave her a look as if she had attained the height of stupidity. "OH. Your husband. Why didn't you just say so?" Her reaction equaled his own, although for different reasons. She had expected more, much more from Trump after her last demands. Pushing her luck, she raised her voice again. "I want to see him tomorrow". He looked up, his eyes measuring the strength of her tone and posture. "Why so sudden, Kamala? This is a busy week. We can't just make that happen". She walked up to Trump, resting the planner on the edge of the desk. "But you can. Please". She looked at him with pleading eyes, hoping her act was enough to fool him. Trump stared a moment longer, face blank, then stood up from his desk. He smoothed his suit out, straightened his tie. He walked around the desk to face her, then, to her shock, stepped aside. "Would you like to sit there?" he asked, pointing to his own chair. The President's chair.

Kamala knew she had overstepped. But Trump was calm, and unlike Putin he was generally very, very open with his emotions. Sensing nothing, she shook her head in deference. "No, that's your seat, Mr. President". Servitude wasn't her strong suit, but right now, it was the best chance she had of getting out of this room. "Oh, please, I insist" Trump said mockingly, putting his hands on her shoulders and guiding her around the immense desk and into the chair. Sitting down, Kamala marveled at its plush, buoyant nature, but the President's hands on her shoulders sent waves of fear coursing through her.

She sat back in his chair. "What do you want?" She asked Trump. Her voice sounded strange, unfamiliar. Besides inside his office, it hadn't been used all day. At least her position offered the chance to speak, sometimes even freely. She wondered if she would ever get to use it freely again, to tell her husband and kids she loved them.

His fingers dug into her skin to the point it hurt, and she winced while a single thought overtook her mind. " _Don't make me do it again. I gave you what you wanted before, don't make me do it again_ ".  
  


The silence unnerved her, to the point she was close to snapping at him that he should stop this game and let her leave, when he spoke up. "I have a present for you", he said. The way he said it made her shudder. "I want nothing from you". She didn't know where the sudden burst of defiance came from and she suddenly got the feeling that she had made another mistake. The way his fingers rubbed her, grounded into her flesh and left marks, made her feel small. Even smaller then she had felt last night, down on her knees, begging for the lives of the family of the man she had respected and loved. He bent over, his mouth next to her ear, his right hand moving up, caressing her jawline before almost tenderly swiping away loose strands of hair, tucking them in behind her ear "You seemed to think very differently a moment ago" she closed her eyes at the remarks, trying to block out memories. "You were almost eager Kamala, so desperate to see your family...to save the people you love". She felt the tear run down her face before she knew she was crying.  
  


He reached out, placing a picture on her desk. It had been taken taken at Cole’s – her stepson’s – graduation, and had been a wonderfully happy day, full of sunlight and laughter, from another lifetime. Doug's ex-wife had taken it, and Kamala could almost hear her voice calling 'cheese' as they smiled into the camera carefreely. She held the photograph in shaking hands, trying not to get it stained, while more tears began to flow... Trump’s fingers kept combing through her hair, softly, mocking the comforting gesture. "I'm sure they miss you as much as you miss them. If you're good, you _might_ see them again". She had never felt so desperate and helpless, not even when Joe died, not even the previous night. "I've done everything you asked me to do", she whispered, and the desperation had never been so evident as she realized that she had played the only card she held not for her own, but for Joe's family. "Just a reminder", Trump said almost cheerfully, as he removed his hands from her body and stepped away. _'At least he stopped touching me'_ , she thought as her husbands face blurred in front of her eyes.

"You can see your husband tomorrow" Trump's voice dryly sounded out above the quiet echo of her sniffles. "But you owe me for this, Kamala. Don't forget it". She nodded, trying to control her breathing, wiping away tears with her sleeve while holding the frame protectively against her chest with the other. She stood up, and stepped past Trump without a word.

"Go clean yourself up, then be back here in ten" his voice sounded out and she turned to see him already settled back into his chair, his seat of power, thumbs whirling away furiously at his phone's screen. She turned and practically fled from his office, down the hall, then the next, and the next, until breathing heavily she arrived at the door to her room. It wasn't even 9:20 yet, but it had felt like an eternity. Opening the door, she walked to her desk, placing the photograph of one of her happiest memories down for safekeeping. At least, for one blissful moment today, she could revel in something happy without Trump breathing down her neck.

"Small mercies" she whispered.  
  



	6. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, was a bit sick recently. Thankfully MyLoveofOrangesIsInevitable agreed to write some more, so the writing should improve significantly xD

Every dawn seemed determined to bring some fresh new horror, one that Kamala had not yet faced nor wanted to. Her dreams slowly gave way to nightmares, recurring ones that haunted her both in and out of her waking hours. Biden's lifeless eyes mixed with the piercing sound of the bullet as it ripped through his chest. Trump, a thousand feet tall, looming over her as she shrunk into the floor, affixed by the devilish fire in his eyes and the grin, stretching across his cheeks, which promised nothing but humiliation and despair. Despite it all, she awoke to this morning, calm. Her breathing, slow and steady, unlike the typical rush as she sucked in air not tainted by the fantastic visions in her sleep. Today was the day she could see her husband.

Kamala's spirits infected her daily routine as well as her rest. The covers, which normally seemed so comforting in their thick nature, now felt heavy and lifeless. With a swift flourish of her arm, she tossed them to the side and leapt out of bed, surprised at the early hour ticking away from her alarm. But why rest when one good thing - the only good thing to happen in weeks - awaited her? Trump's words played inside her head again, his warning of her owing him a sore damper on her mood given the last bargain they made. Although it was in her nature to worry, she threw her misgivings to the side. Today was a happy day, possibly the last for quite a while, and she didn't want to ruin it by worrying.

The President's schedule, carefully constructed and already stretched to its limit, now included his aide's visit, a twenty-four-hour affair that Kamala had managed to bargain for once a month. The only stipulation besides his wish to her was that it include a brief set of pictures for the media. She hated how Trump's smile had widened as he again repeated his demands to her, but under the circumstances she was powerless to give anything besides a wordless debt. She knew he enjoyed watching her squirm, unable to know even her own fate. It was only today that she could push the thought of him away, hide it in a corner of her mind to remain dark and forgotten, until hopefully it faded from her mind entirely.

She waited by the window, pacing restlessly as the small and big hand shifted ever-so-slightly in their places. There was nothing for her to do, no access to the outside world besides the constantly-guarded phone and small talk with her new guard. She hadn't talked to Chase since their first meeting, and she saw no reason yet to trust him. He had promised to show her evidence of his claims, and until that happened, she would treat him like any other White House security. She picked up the photo Trump had given her yesterday. Her husband's smile, and her son's, were easygoing. Hers was professional, and she chided herself for always being so uptight, for not allowing herself to let go of her seriousness even for a moment. Eventually, knuckles rapping on her door brought her out of her wistful reverie, which she opened to find Chase staring back at her with a half - smile. His eyes glanced back behind him, indicating that he wasn’t alone. She nodded to him with a neutral expression on her face before walking outside her well-decorated room and into the hallway, where another guard awaited her alongside the President.

His demeanor this morning seemed more lively than usual, his hands firmly gripping the rotund edges of his suit as he shifted from foot to foot, obviously impatient to get started with the day's events. She summoned up her courage and returned his cheesy grin with a cold nod, before pointedly looking to the guard for guidance. Trump ignored her attitude and nodded once to the guard, remarking in a voice full of energy "lets go!". The small group journeyed through the immaculate corridors until they eventually reached the entrance, in fact the front entrance, to the White House. Trump's motorcade and security detail were already waiting, engines idling as the team, spotting the president, hastily ended their previous conversation and prepared to leave. The door to the President's Cadillac opened, and Kamala was hit with a wave of emotion as she realized she was setting foot outside for the first time since her capture and captivity. The White House Balcony had been simply a taste compared to the freedom she felt now, and every instinct in her body told her to run, to bolt past her captors and escape to freedom. But in Trump's America, there was no freedom. She wasn't safe anywhere, and only after repeating this inside her head did the trembling in her body subside, and she climbed into the waiting car.

They set off, leaving her prison behind her, and Kamala had to stifle gasps as she peered through tinted windows at the surrounding D.C. architecture she had become so attached to. It looked…well, like a tornado had ripped through the area. Broken windows, buildings with decimated frames that teetered on unevenly constructed supports, and vandalism that covered the once-iconic statues and monuments that dotted the surrounding landscape. A tornado indeed. The response to Trump's claim to power were clear as they coasted over crumbled debris and navigated a safe path through the city. But what struck Kamala as most profound was the emptiness. The streets, which should have been filled with people pointing and gasping as the motorcade drove by, were devoid of cars or any traffic. For a city of nearly 700,000 residents, this wasn't just unlikely, it was impossible. Kamala could only wonder how much effort and preparation went into planning the President's excursions away from his seat of power, and what the consequences might be for any who failed to obey his will.

As they left the city center, the surrounding environment eventually improved, rubble and debris disappearing to leave smooth, well-paved asphalt. The initial outrage and anger felt by the general public had been primarily focused on the President, and not the city itself. It was the reallocation of funds that Trump carelessly moved towards his pet projects that left it ripe for pillage and plunder by its criminal elements, who saw the ousting of the proper President and Vice President as a signal that the country's stability was quickly failing. Arriving at the Four Seasons hotel, where Kamala and Doug had been staying while they celebrated their victory, her door was opened, and Kamala stepped out into the bright, cloudless day. A warm breeze flowed through her hair, and she breathed in the sweet smell of flowers, of grass and nature. The hotel sat on Pennsylvania Avenue, near the edge of a major roadway that snaked through the surrounding neighborhood and provided trees a chance to grow amidst the crowded urban environment. To Kamala, any smell was preferable to that of the constantly-recycled air spat out by her room's air conditioner, no matter how refined it was.

A path led up to the building, a majestic structure hewn from marble and granite. Two guards with rifles slung over their shoulders were already posted by the entrance, no doubt assigned there because of the high-profile family member inside. Perhaps this was how Trump maintained his public identity, by keeping everyone who may be a threat to him under house arrest until, under his watchful gaze, they could be released back into the public domain. The group set off up the steps and arriving at the entrance, Trump waved the security aside while glancing at his watch with fretful eyes. It appeared that they were still on schedule. Assuming that he was being gracious, Trump held the door open for Kamala, who walked past without giving him a second glance. Her mind couldn't be bothered to deal with Trump right now, and soon enough she didn't have to. Her roving eyes picked him out of the awaiting crowd of photographers and news reporters in a heartbeat, the five-o-clock shadow beard and slightly-balding hair always an iconic duo. His own eyes met with hers and locked, and nothing could stop her from darting past her security and throwing herself into his arms. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she pressed her face into the fabric of his suit, and she breathed in his scent as he stroked her hair and returned her tight hug. She blinked, hard, to stop the tears from falling, for she knew the media would be on them in a heartbeat. Doug whispered words of longing into her ear while resting his chin near her forehead. "Kamala, it's okay, I'm here now. We're safe".

She didn't have the heart to argue against him despite knowing how wrong he was. In response, she pulled away and nodded slightly to show she was ok, before pressing back up against his chest. By now, the crowd that had awaited them descended upon the pair in a frenzy, and a flurry of questions brought Kamala out of her brief reunion. Immediately the politician in her took charge, crushing the emotional release that seeing her husband, safe and sound, had given her, and bringing with it an answer to each question lobbed at her about the state of the country, Joe's assassination, the future of the Democratic Party, and more. A tight squeeze on her hand made her look down to see Doug smiling assuredly down at her, promising not to leave her side, and with a smile edging its way onto her face she continued to answer the barrage of questions until, after about ten minutes, Trump's detail secured the area and moved the crowd away towards Trump, who had scheduled his own impromptu press conference in order to meet his schedule's demands.

It left Kamala and Doug alone, something Kamala had grown unused to while in public. She looked up at him and grasped his hand tighter, looking pointedly at the door to the elevators. One night. That was what Trump had promised her, on a monthly basis. They weren't allowed to leave the hotel, but given the state outside it might be for the better. Besides, both had grown accustomed to their indoor imprisonment, and had found ways to cope with the lack of activities it left them. Ascending on the elevator to the third floor, the pair moved quickly, quietly. Unspoken words shone through their actions as they glanced at each other, increasing their step until they practically ran through the halls, Kamala forced to tag behind as Doug, having lived there more than a month, knew the way. Arriving at his room, she pushed playfully against his back, glad to be away from the prying eyes of media and security, not the least Trump himself. Turning around in her grasp, he bent down and pulled her into a passionate kiss, lips locking for an eternity of longed-for bliss while his other fumbled with the door. Pushing it open, he pulled the both of them into the room, letting it swing shut behind them. The both of them pulled apart for air, but as Doug's hands found their way down Kamala's dress she froze. Images of Trump standing over her flashed before her eyes, making her hesitate as he moved in to kiss her again.

Doug saw her hesitation, saw the doubt in her eyes that replaced the light that had shined in them before. "What's wrong?" he said, before cursing inwardly. Of all the questions she hated to be asked, it was that. If she wanted to talk about it with him, she would, and he had learned long ago that pressing her was only a pathway to anger. "I…I can't. I just can't". He held her there as she repeated that, and the happiness that had filled his soul before was replaced with questions. What had happened to her in that month they were separated? He wanted to ask, but it was uncertain what was okay to ask and what would only rouse bad memories. She shook her head to him, sniffling, before asking in a small voice, "Can we just cuddle?" He brought her in and nodded, shifting down to look into her eyes, to show her it was okay. She smiled before pushing him down onto the bed and jumping in after him, her earlier fear being replaced with laughter.

They lay underneath the covers of the bed, speaking in hushed tones, her occasionally giggling euphorically at the little things she had missed in his absence. His trove of lame jokes had been slowly growing with no one to practice them on, and now she was being blasted by a plethora of puns that, under typical circumstances, would have had her groaning in despair and questioning her life choices. Now, she laughed hysterically, until tears trickled down her face, at each and every one, not for a second wishing he would stop. Each time Doug would wipe away her tears with the thumb of his hand, knowing his jokes weren't the only reason she was crying. They were tears of joy. Seeing them made his own eyes glisten momentarily, but he had promised himself that under no circumstances would today be a day he would let them out. After the euphoria of their initial reunion had faded, Kamala had cuddled into his arms, shutting her eyes from the glow of the TV.

She told him about practically everything, from where they had taken her, to what Trump was like, to what she ate. He had been shocked to hear of Putin's involvement, sitting up in stunned silence as Kamala watched his face betray a wide range of emotions. First disbelief, then anger, then understanding. It was almost amusing, if not for the seriousness of the situation. How directly Russia had finally involved themselves in U.S. politics. 2016 had been a testing ground, seeing how easily bribes passed through official's hands and which security networks were full of holes. She hadn't mentioned Chase or his question to her. She didn't want her husband to worry, not when she herself still wasn't sure whether or not she could trust Chase's intentions. For now, they were happy to remain in their room, under the safety of the sheets in each other's arms, doing something simple like watching TV.

At first, she had been excited to turn it on, to hear the news and see the outside world, but had been disappointed to find that, inside the White House, she knew more about the going-ons than the public. They were still reporting on the dangerous "terror cells" that were fighting against Trump's administration despite her knowing for a fact that the serious ones had been _dealt with_ , for lack of a better term. Still, it helped Trump's image to maintain an aura of uncertainty and fear in the public eye, to make them feel that they needed his support or else the whole country would fall into ruin. After a short while she had turned away from the news anchor's chatter, turning inwards to her husband's arms under the covers. He stroked her hair slowly, willing her to fall into a deep and restful sleep, while checking the time they had remaining. Sixteen hours. He put his watch to the bedside table, and turned off the overhead light and television, before pulling the covers up over to her shoulders. A long time from now, both of them would remember this as the happiest day during their imprisonment.


	7. A Sign

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's official! MyLoveOfOrangesIsInevitable is a co-creator, couldn't have gotten this far without their interesting takes and supportive ideas!

She sat on the edge of the hotel bed, staring into nothingness. At some point, her weariness overtook the earlier excitement and lulled her into a good and restful slumber. No nightmares, for the first time in weeks. Still, she couldn’t help but feel like it wasted precious time with her husband. Doug shifted from his spot, awake, probably trying to clear his own demons from his head. The silence that permeated the room ever since they awoke made him restless. From the way his posture changed, she could tell he was about to say something.

"I don't want to go back there".

She spoke up before he could say anything. She didn't want to hear his words of comfort right now. His expression softened, and she could see her own pain at their separation reflected in his eyes.

"I know", was his simple answer. She knew that if he said more, he would break down. Silence again descended, but Kamala didn’t let it control the mood. "I'm scared" she whispered, and she knew she was close to tears. Doug closed his eyes, his own fear for her evident as he wrapped her tightly in his arms, petting her hair. "I love you so much", he whispered. "We'll get through this. Trump can't keep you there forever. Soon enough, you'll be home with us again and we'll have the whole family over for dinner". The thought did bring a smile to her face. "I could cook for everyone again", she said, and felt his arms tighten around her torso. "You have to tell them I love them…Cole and Ella, I mean…". The words held more finality to them then she had intended. Her husband stayed still for a while. He ran his hand through her hair before saying, "You'll have to tell them yourself, you know that".

"Please still tell them, ok?", she begged until he nodded into her hair.

"He wants me" She blurted it out into the silence that had descended upon the room again. Not knowing what had gotten a hold of her, she felt herself go limp into his arms, and in one swift movement he was crouching down in front of her, looking into her eyes with a paled expression on his face. He took her face into his hands, making her look right into his eyes before telling in a low, deadly serious tone, "Kamala, you do not have to do anything he wants, okay? You can always, ALWAYS say no, you don't have to do it, okay?" The pent-up feelings she had held inside herself for weeks suddenly broke out of her at the realization that he didn't know it had already happened. "I had to" she sobbed out, closing her eyes when she saw Doug's face fall. She buried her face in her own hands, trying to hide the tears of shame she felt from his eyes. "I'm so sorry, he…he said he would kill Joe's family and Doug, you have to believe me, I didn’t want it, it was just…it was the only thing he wanted and I couldn't just let all of them be killed. Oh god, I'm so sorry I-"

"Kamala" he said, but it just made her cry harder trying to explain herself more. "Kami" he wrestled her face out of her hands, trying desperately to catch her eyes. "Kami, it's okay, I know it could never be your choice. I'm not angry at you, I love you. PLEASE don't blame yourself for being used by him".

His eyes were full of tears too, when he pulled her out of bed and into his lap. He was so gentle with her, she thought. She had missed how his hands danced around her hair, the loving smile when his eyes watched her, as if he discovered something new about her every time he looked. She wished she could give back more, and cuddled herself deeper against her husband's chest. "I love you" she repeated, and smiled when he replied the same. "He, umm…" she started, knowing Doug wouldn't be able to rest until he knew the extent of Trump's abuse.

He cut her off before she could continue, anticipating the thought. "You don't need to tell me, Kamala" he said, and Kamala nodded against his chest. She sniffled, and laughed to herself in mock pity. "I know you won't ever be able to sleep again if I don't because you'll think of every worst way it could have happened". His silence confirmed it to be true. "Doug, he didn't fuck me…" She felt his posture relax a little. The tiny bit of tension that fell off him immediately returned at her next words. "I can still taste him…and I can still feel his hands grabbing my hair". Doug's hand immediately left her brown curls, hovering awkwardly over her body, opting instead to take her hand, holding it tightly in his and keeping her grounded against the memories threatening to crash back down upon her. "I wished we had more time" she whispered while slowly getting up. "Believe me, me too" her husband answered, taking her hand while they walked out of the hotel room.

The lobby was empty and quiet, a stark contrast from yesterday. She saw a black limo waiting for her outside, slightly smaller compared to the President's official transport. Doug pulled her into a big hug, whispering words of encouragement. She smiled up at him before turning around, walking into another four weeks on her own, when he called out her name. "Kamala". Her head snapped around.

"Have lunch with Chase for me, okay?"

Her brow furrowed. Chase…her guard? How did he know about him when she specifically left him out? Doug gave a small smile, nodding at her confusion, his eyes drawn to the government car outside but his voice as serious as it had been back in the hotel room. She realized that he had suspected, for some reason, it hadn't been safe to discuss it there. Perhaps his room was bugged. Weeks alone, under constant supervision, would make anyone paranoid, and his case was no exception. "I…I guess it would be alright" He smiled at her response, nodding and waving at her as she got into the car. She watched as his figure slowly disappeared behind the glassy exterior of the doors, leaving her with more questions in her head than it answered. Chase's earlier promise to her, of getting proof, leapt into her head, and she realized that somehow, they had contacted her husband. This changed everything. Now, she eagerly awaited her return to her prison, along with the chance to see Chase again. His words had ignited a fire of rebellion in her soul, one she had quickly crushed with her pessimistic realism and doubt. With her husband's signal, she knew that she would take any chance she had to fight back against Trump.

\--

\--

The ride back to the White House was blissfully dull. The quiet, abandoned streets reflected the general dispirited mood of the city's inhabitants, one's Kamala would be desperate to talk to outside of a media-focused interview or press conference. Alas, the gates opened for the car, and as her limo rolled up to one of the back entrances, Kamala accepted that she was entering her prison once again. She gazed at the ornate architecture, the statues and Corinthian columns that gave the building its regal and hallowed nature. In the past, she had dreamt of nothing else but working here, living here. Managing the country her way, on her terms. The deal she had struck with Joe had always been a bittersweet victory. She might have worked at the White House, but always as the Number 2, from the sidelines. Now, after everything had changed, and with her husband's signal, she felt like she had a second chance, another opportunity to save her country. As she strode inside, Kamala breathed in her last breath of fresh air, keeping her head held high, with confidence oozing from her posture and walk.

Lunch had come and gone before she had arrived, and as Kamala had only eaten breakfast, she was starving. She had almost knocked on her door to alert Chase, but she wanted a good excuse for him coming into her room, and his daily routine of bringing her meals was a decent-enough excuse for his absence outside standing watch. The last thing she needed was the other guards becoming suspicious. So as the first hand slowly _ticked_ past 5:00PM, she was bouncing on the balls of her feet, anxious and worried, hopeful and nervous, excited and happy. A knock interrupted her thoughts, followed by his subsequent entering along with a tray. He nodded at her and smiled, similar to how he did so every occurrence. "Chase" she started, her voice hitching a little due to her nervousness. He looked up, surprised that she hadn't simply resorted to her common polite "thank you".

"Chase", she repeated. "I got your message". Her words, to which he had initially appeared concerned, immediately brought a smile to his face, and he grinned broadly with pride. "You did, did you? Were you surprised when he told you? How we managed to get a wire into his hotel-"

"A wire?", she interrupted. "He never mentioned a wire."

"Oh" Chase responded, sounding disappointed. "That part was definitely the most dangerous…perhaps that's why he left it out. But anyways…that's great! Does that prove, I mean, do you believe me when I say I am who I say I am, now?" His hopeful tone couldn't help but transmit a hint of reproach, his ego having taken a hit from her earlier weariness and doubt. "It does…" she responded, slowly. "I want to help you. I want to help the Founders get rid of Trump". Chase set the platter down at her bed, moving to shake her hand, but Kamala, feeling somewhat carefree, embraced him in a hug instead. Wrapping her arms around him, she noticed again the leanness, the wiry frame, and most importantly the youth. Someone his age should be buying their first car, traveling, working. Not caught up in a revolutionary group. At least, to the prim and no-nonsense Kamala, she wished he could have had a better future. One dictated by choice, not fear. She patted him to let him know the momentary physical contact was over, and he moved back a step, holding her arms in excitement.

For the first time in weeks, Kamala felt happy. Chase's boyish joy infected her attitude, of that there was no doubt, but she also realized it was the first time in a long time she had a friend, an ally. She missed her husband and family, but Joe especially. He had been taken in with her, had shared the cell adjacent to her own. She had watched him die, leaving her alone and powerless in this giant country-wide coup. No one knew what she had been through, until Chase had come along. Now, this burden was no longer hers to bear alone. She was grateful for the chance to be part of something greater, to be working alongside the people she was fighting for.

Chase dropped his arms, controlling the excitement he too felt at her decision. A cursory glance at his watch made him frown at the time. "I'm glad you changed your mind, Kamala. Thank you. I promise you, you won't regret it. It's too late to discuss anything tonight, in fact I shouldn't be in this room for more than a few minutes at a time anyways. Guard rotations…I'll tell you tomorrow. You'll have to know about it if you want to do what we need you to do. Tonight, please, eat, get some rest, and I'll be back tomorrow morning. Then we can talk".

She nodded, assenting to the limited hours of the day and the demands of his tight schedule. "Ok. I'm glad you still want me. I promise, I'll do anything, anything to end this. She hoped she conveyed how serious she was properly given the lighthearted mood, but after nodding again, he stepped outside, leaving her alone. She took the platter off the bed, bringing it to her desk. Tonight? Grilled Plank Salmon, served on a bed of jasmine rice, with char-grilled broccolini to accompany it. It made her mouth water, and Kamala dug on, savoring each bite. Tonight, she ate with the feeling of victory in her gut.


	8. Espionage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, university is starting back up and the holiday was a bit crazy! Hope you enjoy this chapter, the next is already finished but needs some tweaking and should be out soon!

She paced outside his office, seemingly at a loss. An onlooker might have noticed the agitated expression on her face, or the curling of her fingers around the hem of her jacket, but thankfully the corridor was empty save for her and the security cameras. Kamala had gone through the plan ten, twenty, thirty times before she felt even the slightest tinge of self-confidence, but she steeled against the waves of fear that washed over her with the assumption that she never would have made it this far if not for her decision-making. As risky as it was, her husband's disguised blessing made what Kamala was about to do feel far more appropriate and realistic rather than rebellious and careless. A blink…another….and the green light on each camera "blipped" to red, giving her the go-ahead she was waiting for to open the door to the Oval Office and slip inside.

Without the President, the room felt eerily empty, as if a great space – both literally and figuratively – had been left in the vacuum of Trump's presence. More blinking red lights from the top of the south-most corner of the room made her breathe easier, and Kamala went over to the desk with trembling limbs, looking for something in particular amongst the cluttered piles scattered in heaps across its surface. Ah. The daily planner. She took it, examining the following day's schedule, committing it to memory. Trump was gone from the building currently, on a golfing session on the opposite side of the city. She had nothing to fear from him while the operation was a go. It was Putin who scared her. The impossible variable, unaccounted for on Trump's schedules or in any of the information he carelessly gabbed to her about. But it was a risk she was willing to take. Putting the folder down exactly as she found it, Kamala went to the computer, taking a small flash drive from the inside of her bra and plugging it into the open USB port. An error message prompted her heart to skip a beat as the security systems automatically scanned the contents of the drive and, finding nothing suspicious, allowed it to connect with the OS's file system. Operation "Trojan Horse but Better", as Chase deemed it, was underway.

_"The software, see, it's not meant to wipe his hard drive, or lock him out of his system, nothing like that",_ Chase's voice flashed in her head from the conversation this morning. _"It searches for other security software in the system, and then mirrors it, like a copycat. Whatever he's got protecting his system, it'll act just like it, except it's all fake, none of the firewalls or settings will do anything. It's a cover, for the real spyware. Keystrokes, search results, websites, you name it. If Trump so much as looks at his screen, we'll scrape it and record it. What we need you to do, is…",_ "To plug the stupid thing in", Kamala muttered under her breath. The flashing bar that steadily grew across the screen displayed how much time she had left to wait until it was done installing itself. Really, she had never seen anything like this in all her life, but then again, Kamala had grown accustomed to the role of a politician, a lawyer, NOT, a spy. Chase had tried to assuage her fears with the knowledge that he and a select few – that he wouldn't mention the number or names of – were in the security room right now, manning the stations that controlled the cameras in this quadrant of the White House. She had asked him why he or any of the others couldn't be the ones to sneak into the office, but he had replied by saying that she was the one with the most plausible excuse for being there. On a day when the President was out, the White House security shifted towards wherever needed the most protection. That did not include the empty hallways around or leading up to his office, but Kamala, who was widely known as the President's personal aide, would have a much easier time explaining her reasons for wandering about then a lone guard such as Chase.

The flashing green light from the screen alerted her that her job was nearly complete. She ejected the flash drive from the socket and tucked it back inside her bra, completely invisible underneath her heavy jacket and suit. She got up from the chair, looking back at it, felt somewhat foolish as she attempted to position it just as she had found it, smoothing out the small indentations her body had made. She walked briskly to the door, eyeing wearily the blinking red cameras that glared wordlessly in her direction. It wasn't until she was down the length of the hallway that she breathed out the air she had been keeping pent up inside her lungs, scared it would somehow alert the world to her crimes. Part of her couldn't believe it had been so simple. That part, got doused with ice-cold, freezing water as a guard stepped around a corner she was nearing. Her foot nearly froze in front of her as Putin's small frame appeared in her view, flanked by the guard and another to his right. He stopped suddenly at seeing her, holding up his hand with the palm facing forwards in the universal "stop" gesture. His eyes scanned over every inch of her, noticing the wrinkles in her brow stemming from the stress of her position, the falter in her step. He nodded to his guards, who assumed the "at ease" position as he strolled over to where she was standing, still unable to decide if she should keep walking or stop to face him.

"Ms. Harris" he nodded, a wan smile creeping around the edges of his face. "It is a surprise to see you here. I thought the President was out today?"

"He is…but he hadn't told me" Kamala was speaking before thinking, hoping her words would somehow coalesce into a semi-tangible story. "I waited outside his office for at least an hour until someone told me he wasn't in the building. I must have mixed up his schedule, hah". She laughed in an attempt to cover up her quick speech, but it came out more nervous than relaxed. Her brain was working overtime trying to recall all the tell-tale signs of a lie, exactly what not to do when confronted with a deadly KGB veteran. Her eyes? Were they supposed to look directly at him, or up? To the right or the left? Her arms. Should they be crossed, or down? Her hands, should they be shelved away behind her back or clasped proudly in front of her? She forced herself not to fidget as she spoke, knowing her only way out of this was to create something plausible enough to get her away for the moment, something Putin couldn't immediately deny without further investigation. By the time he could confirm any of his suspicions, she'd be long gone.

Putin smiled down at her, possibly simply enjoying the obvious discomfort she exuded. He nodded again in agreement. "Yes, well, the President is a busy man. I'm sure keeping track of his schedule gets quite tiresome. He can't always be here to watch his back". He motioned again with his hand for the guards a few meters away to rejoin him, and snapping to attention they marched to his side as the trio set off away, Putin not giving Kamala so much as a wave or word goodbye. Their retreating figure, down the hallway she had just come from, allowed her to breath once again, and with stronger steps now Kamala remade her way down the remaining corridors and back to her private suite. Even as she passed a variety of congressmen, staff, assistants, and more, Kamala felt nothing similar as to how she had when Putin entered her view. Not least the hulking brutes who accompanied him, but the situation. Why was he so near Trump's office? What was he doing in that part of the White House, when the President was gone? Kamala didn't take the time to think about these questions as shaking hands turned the knob that finally, finally left her blissfully alone in her room. Collapsing onto her back in the soft embrace of her sheets, she took the flash drive out and studied it again. It was useless, for now. A messenger, awaiting information to fill the confines of its data banks once again. Kamala would have to repeat what she had done today, or all the information that Chase's software had copied would go nowhere. Worse, the program would stay active, giving more time for Trump, or anyone else, to discover their plan. It was an inherently risky plan, but the best option they had at the moment to get sensitive information quickly. Kamala could only hope that whatever Trump was doing on his computer, be it sending emails or googling porn, would be useful to the Founders. It had to be. For her sake, and for all their sakes.

\--

\--

A week had passed since Kamala's first assignment. Today, she woke with a start, nervous energy coursing through her body and sending a tingling sensation throughout her extremities. 8:50AM. Throwing the covers off her bed, she stood up and stretched, feeling far more rejuvenated than anything a typical rest should give. She recalled last night's conversation with Chase, as they poured over today's plan in detail. Before, her actions had been guided by fear, worry, and doubt. A million and one things could have gone wrong. Trump could have changed his schedule. Putin could have run into her sooner. The program could have been discovered.

But it hadn't, and Chase's elated mood when she had reported her success had infected her with his youthful energy and joy. In a place where she was constantly being judged, constantly being watched, and constantly in fear for her life, she had one friend who appreciated her, who could depend on her and who she could depend on in turn. Now, as she performed her daily routine, left the suite, and briskly walked towards the President's office, her steps, indeed her whole posture, spoke of the determination she felt within her. Chase had assured her that the cameras would be down, and from the schedule she knew the office would be unoccupied between the hours of 9:00 and 10:00AM. A bruncheon in the President's honor was being held downstairs. After complaining to her for nigh on the entire day yesterday, the President had relented and accepted the event, although Kamala suspected he was pleased at the request. Funded by an outside party, it was one of the first positive media experiences he was expecting after his takeover, and therefore it was critical that it not only succeed, but be a catalyst for future positive press. The President had no way of knowing the group had been contacted by the Founders, where the money was being sourced from. No way of knowing Chase's bosses had spent the better part of an afternoon convincing, no, pleading with people in closed meetings, behind closed doors, that it was the right thing to do, indeed the BEST thing to do. All for Kamala. For this one, slim opportunity.

In a way, she was flattered. So much effort, time, and money sunk into something she would be doing. But it also put a damper on her mood, and, slowing her pace, she began skirting around the far sides of halls, checking for anyone approaching she would be scared of. In truth, there was only one man who put fear into her heart, not least because of their mutual hatred for one another. Thankfully, she was alone, and arriving at the Oval Office doors, slipped inside without a sound. 9:05. Right on schedule. The office, brightly lit, shone with its usual grandeur, and the chair behind the President's massive desk practically beckoned for someone to use it, to assume command of the room and the role that accompanied it. Kamala chided herself. Now wasn't the time for wishful thinking.

Taking the flash drive and plugging it in, Kamala watched as the software recognized the foreign object and immediately began downloading itself. Collecting the data was important, but even more so was deleting any trace of its existence. Finishing its process, the virus popped up with a simple yes or no text box, with highlighted text asking to be deleted. She clicked "yes", and immediately another progress bar indicated that it would take roughly five minutes before completion. Leaning back, Kamala smiled to herself, eagerly anticipating the sensitive material they might glean from their, her, spywork. "This one's for you, Doug" she whispered as it steadily approached completion.

Then she heard it. Far off in the distance, but growing louder by the minute. Footsteps. Heavy ones. A belligerent tone accompanied it, and Kamala's heart froze as Trump's voice grew nearer and nearer. 9:15. Why was he back so early?! She couldn't hear anyone else, but given the volume of the President's speech, practically shouting at this point, she was sure he would drown them out regardless. Kamala's breath caught in her throat, and her eyes darted back to the screen in front of her, begging the program to hurry up. It was no use. She had to go now, or find herself face-to-face with the world's most dangerous dictator while sitting in his chair. She ripped the flash drive out of the socket, watching as the software paused its deletion process and disappeared. There was no way of knowing if it had reverted to its previous state or simply crashed from the fact that most of its code had vanished, but Kamala stood up, and as the door creaked open, grabbed the daily planner and stood in front of the desk, back straight, arms in front of her. Trump's hand appeared, then his shoulder, than his face. He was holding a phone up to his mouth, bellowing into the reciever about scheduling errors and accountability, wasted time and resources. His eyes glanced up at her, than down again, then flashed back up, and his expression, already red in the face, grew redder. His voice, before so loud and abrasive, became a whisper. " _Kamala! What are you doing here!"_ She held up the planner, hiding the flashdrive behind it. "Sorry Mr. President, I just…I had wanted to go over the schedule again, and you weren't here, so I thought I could just grab it-"

"Nobody- hold on!" He spoke into the phone again, and then ended the call, holding the phone up in the air as deafening silence filled the room. He had an incredulous look on his face, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Nobody is allowed into this office, unless I allow it". Trump held up his finger. "Nobody", he repeated.

"I'm sorry Mr. President, it won't happen again". Kamala held her head down, feigning complete embarrasment. She hated it, hated having to bow her head to this tyrant, but the shaking in her limbs and the knowledge of what he was capable of were far better incentives than her own personal pride. She heard him approach, stepping closer until the musk of his cologne assaulted her nostrils. Her head was still bowed, her vision reduced to his dark grey suit and red tie. She felt stubby fingers grasp her chin, force her head up, and staring into his eyes, Kamala saw the anger within, the desire for some kind of punishment. "You already owe me, Kamala" he said, as his fingers traced their way down her chin, then her neck. They circled her chest, while Kamala stood completely, entirely, still. "Please", she repeated inside her head. "Please not this". His other hand snaked its way around her back, over her hips before squeezing her ass. "It would entirely within my right to call it in now, but…" Taking a heavy breath, Trump dropped his hands from her skin, leaving her standing there teetering on the balls of her feet. "Luckily for you, it's a busy day", he smirked, before his eyes grew harder. "Now get out".

She didn't have to be told twice. Holding the folder close to her chest, she scurried out of the office, feeling his penetrating eyes watching her, burning a hole through her back, staring into her thoughts and fears. Out of nowhere, the cameras above her reverted from red to green, accompanied by a cheerful "blip". She cursed Chase for his unfortunate timing, hoping Trump had been too preoccupied to hear it. She blinked away the tears that had sprung into her eyes, trying to force away the memory of him standing over her, the sickening grin on his face as he pushed his member into her mouth over and over. Reaching her room, Kamala ran to the sink, wretching as her body reacted violently to the memory. Nothing came up, but sinking down onto the bathroom tiles, she ran her fingers through her hair, trying to control her breathing. "Get yourself together, Kamala", she said to herself. Unclenching her fist, she looked at the flash drive again. Her breathing still heavy, she spoke out again to herself. "You better be worth this".

\--

\--

The rest of her day passed in solitude. It wasn't until Chase arrived for dinner that Kamala spoke another word, and immediately he sensed something was amiss. "Here", she said, holding the flash drive out in front of her. He stood there, fumbling for a while with the platter before setting it down and grabbing it from her outstretched fingers. "Kamala…" he started, but she cut him off before he could express his thanks. "I don't…I can't…talk today. I'm sorry. I hope you find something useful from that, but please, I'd like the evening alone". She knew she was being unfairly cold towards him. It wasn't his fault. But he relented, understanding that something had happened during the mission. "Ok. I'll be here tomorrow". With a small smile, he left the food, and returned to his post outside. She was his asset, and he understood that pushing her beyond her own limits would do nothing to strengthen her resolve. Looking at the food, she wasn't hungry, despite not eating for most of the day. Sleep was out of the question, as every time she closed her eyes Trump's face loomed in front of her. She could only hope, and pray that her work had been enough.


	9. Chapter 9

She woke up with a start. Chase had barged in through the door, causing her to jump up from her sleeping position, and she stared at him in surprise. "Get dressed," he said, his voice sounding distressed. "What?", she asked, tired and confused, as her eyes wandered over to the alarm clock at her nightstand. 5:52 AM. She hadn't overslept, at the very least. "Get. Dressed. I think they found out." Chase repeated to her before exiting her room in a hurry. She wanted him to stay and explain what was going on, as she quickly pulled clothes out of her closet and put them on. She was exhausted after yesterday's events, barely managing to catch more than a wink of sleep after the nightmare in Trump's office. Leaning back onto the bed, she waited for something she didn't know. Chase wouldn't have barged in like that if it wasn't important, of that she was sure, and despite her state, she didn't dare lie back down. Her head was resting in her hands when her alarm rang, warning her of her daily schedule. She listened to the clock ticking every second in a daze, but when it showed ten minutes before 9:00, she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. She hadn´t yet tested how the President would react if she were to come in late, and she wasn't about to try.  
She turned the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. Someone must have locked it while she was asleep. Confusion rose within her and mixed with the fear of what the locked door represented for her, and just as she was considering using her room’s landline phone to call the President and ask what the hell was going on, the key turned and a guard she didn't know entered the room.   
Kamala took a step back, not trusting the blank face of the man in front of her. He looked at her for a few seconds, and she wondered how it was possible to conceal one's emotions so completely. “You'll be late if you don't go now”, he muttered, a cold smile on his lips. Her eyes fell to the clock on her nightstand. Fuck. She had less than two minutes to make it to the Oval Office.  
To get from her room to the President’s office, Kamala needed at least ten minutes if she walked fast. She made it in five. Her lungs were burning from her lack of exercise, and now, panting in front of the Oval Office’s door, she regretted not using her spare moments alone to exercise. Three minutes late. She just hoped Trump wouldn't notice….or simply not care. When she entered the office, she tried to blend in with the crowd that huddled a few paces from the President’s desk, but when she saw who was sitting where she usually sat, she realized that being late wasn´t her only concern. Files were spread out in front of Putin and Trump, and she quickly recognized Chase's face among many others she didn´t know and prayed desperately that they hadn't found out about their actions.  
“You're late,” said Trump. He sounded annoyed but distantly so as if her punctuality hadn’t angered him in the past. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but the door to my room was locked”. Her voice and words sounded much more confident than she felt. Trump didn't pay her any more attention, just continuing looking through the files of what seemed like different kinds of White House security and staff, but Putin fixated her with a menacing stare that didn't at all fit the warm smile on his lips. She couldn't shake the feeling that, if he had only a bit more power over her, she would be dead. And that would probably be him showing mercy. “Please sit, Mrs. Harris,” he gestured to the chair he had been occupying a few seconds ago. “I’d rather stand,” she said, trying not to break eye contact, to not show him the fear she felt. “I have to insist”, he spoke before taking her by the arms and gently, but forcefully, pressing her down into the chair.   
Standing right behind her, his hands rested on the back of the chair, with Trump on the opposite end of the table. Now, his attention was solely on her. Sliding a file across, he asked, “What do you know about this man?”. Chase's face greeted her from the paper. “Peter Dalton” was written where his first and last names were listed, and she wondered if those were even real. The file said he was twenty-five, but to her experienced eyes, he had felt younger. He had to be younger. Either way, too young for the work he was doing, for the goal he had enlisted her to help him complete. A coup. She was wondering how much Putin and Trump knew. That he had changed places with her original guard? That he had entered her room for more than an hour on multiple occasions?   
If they knew and she denied everything, she'd be signing her own death warrant. If she told them she knew, and they hadn’t yet uncovered the plot against them, she would be making the worst mistake of her life. However, the fact that she was still alive, and relatively free, convinced her she was safe. If Chase had told them anything by now, she knew Putin wouldn't have waited to get rid of her.   
She let the file fall back onto the desk. “I don’t know Peter Dalton”, she stated flatly. It wasn't even a lie, as up until this point she had known him by another name. She tried to get up, but Putin leaned over her, using his hands to pin her wrists back down to the table. “Are you absolutely sure? I’d advise you to say the truth Kamala”. “' I-” her voice broke, and she cursed herself for getting emotional. “I don´t know him, I’ve never even heard of him.” To her surprise, Putin let go of her, wordlessly gesturing for her to leave. Seldom in her life had she risen so quickly. Grabbing the folder containing her daily work from Trump's hands, she left the office with Putin’s eyes burning a hole in her back. With security cameras everywhere and the two presidents in the office who might still be watching her, she ran back to her room. While there was no guarantee that her room was safe from surveillance, it was the only safe haven left to her.  
Kamala didn’t know how they had found out about there being a traitor in the White House, but if she was honest with herself, she didn't really know about anything at the moment. She didn't even know what the program she had loaded on the computer was good for. Probably, she thought, that was the Founders’ plan all along, that none of them knew what was actually going on so nobody could spill the information if captured.   
Three days had passed since Chase burst in. Neither Trump nor Putin mentioned him since her questioning, and slowly her usual routine resumed. The only real change that indicated something had even happened was her room’s door being locked at all times, and the guard who now accompanied her to and from Trump’s office. The added security made her nervous, but if that was to be the extent of the consequences of her and Chase’s actions, she could live with it. Still, the loss of yet more privacy added unwanted stress to her day, and frequently she wishes she could walk to Trump’s office down a different path, or simply stop at a window to gaze at the outside world.  
Today, she had just picked up her files from Trump's secretary. The President only talked to her when he had a specific request, and today seemed uneventful enough that she was spared a face-to-face conversation. The secretary who replaced her was a middle-aged woman with short blonde hair. Kamala had never met her gaze directly, as the woman always directed her to stare downwards whenever she approached. Either out of pity, disgust, or guilt, Kamala couldn’t tell. She didn´t know if she wanted to know. In fact, most of the White House staff treated her in a similar manner. She felt like little more than a walking pariah, a warning to others. Only those who wanted to gloat talked to her. In those cases, it was mostly her averting her eyes. Even now, it shocked her every time she saw an old colleague of hers from the Senate smiling down, treating the reality of their situation as if it wasn’t the fall of democracy. The more time that passed without Chase, the more she realized how lonely she was. It was even worse than when Joe died. At least she had known what happened to him, had seen it right in front of her. Back then, her mind was too occupied with worrying to feel the emptiness of solitude. But now, being locked in her room on a frequent basis, she had plenty of time to miss people. Walking slowly, blindly following the guard that was a foot in front of her, she only now noticed that they were taking an unusual route. A different direction entirely, in fact. She stopped walking. “Where are you taking me?”, she asked warily.  
The guard turned around; his face emotionless. Without a trace of hate or sympathy, he said, “Don´t worry ma’am, everything is fine.” Kamala took a step back, warning signs going off inside her head. She wanted to run away, badly, but she knew it was no use. If something was to happen to her, she wouldn't be dragged there. It would be with her dignity intact. “That’s not what I asked,” she said with a steady voice. “I asked where we’re going”. With a hand on her back, he gestured for her to continue with him down the corridor. “I’m not at liberty to say. You’ll find out soon enough,” he said, while gently pushing forward. Kamala got the hint and started walking, and the fears that had consumed her during the questioning days ago suddenly leapt up from the corners of her mind again. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking to her own execution. And that Chase would have a front-row seat.   
When they arrived at a metallic door, her initial fears were confirmed. This was no office or living quarters. This was a cell. And surely not one the UN would approve of. The guard that had been accompanying her opened the door, and without needing direction she moved forward. It seemed foolish to resist now. She was no spy, no secret agent. She was a prosecutor and a politician. She took a deep breath and stepped through the door into what she suspected would be the last room she'd ever want to visit, with her head held high.  
Whatever she had expected to see, it wasn’t what confronted her. On one side of the room was a shelf stacked with books along with a heavy oak table sitting in the right corner. The metal table and chairs placed squarely in the center of the room felt out of place. A golden hue covered the walls, with red dots of color for- no. That wasn't color, she realized as she took in the bloodied form of a human being on the ground. It was blood. Those were splatters of blood. In uneven patterns they traced arcs of violence, ruining the serene, placid atmosphere. The body moaned, and Kamala recognized Chase’s bruised and swollen features. His hands were encased in chains, just as hers had been only a few weeks ago. They connected to the wall, leaving him just enough room to lay down on the floor. Despite his face moving up to hers, and the look of profound recognition he gave, she couldn't get around the sense that he was dead. Another time, another place, and she would have rushed over to him, she would’ve screamed for aid and done everything in her power to help him. She didn’t move an inch now. She felt tears spring into her eyes at what she saw in front of her, but she pushed them back. Chase gave her a small, almost imperceptible smile before croaking “What are you doing here? You betrayed America. How could you team up with Trump!”, out. The words caught her off guard before she realized that indeed, he was helping her. Saving her from suspicion. They were Chase’s parting gift. He was going to die.   
Suddenly he flinched backward, cowering by a corner. Kamala was confused until she felt a hand on her shoulder, making her jump just as violently as Chase had a moment before. Unable to mask her surprise, she gasped in shock at Putin standing behind her. She hadn’t even heard him approach. There was that cold, calculating smile on his lips that he always wore when he knew he had won. “President Putin,” she said, not even trying to hide the disgust in her voice. She looked up to him, directly into his eyes now. He was smaller than he seemed on TV, his height only a few inches more than herself, and the thought gave her confidence. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” She glared up at him coldly, thankful at least that her appearance matched the anger she felt inside. Putin chuckled menacingly, bemused at her newfound confidence.  
“Isolation doesn't serve you well, Mrs. Harris. I'm sure that if you’re this desperate for a meeting, President Trump would love to have a private one...again”. She hated how he did that. The ease in which he found weak spots in her, and attacked them mercilessly. So, he knew. About what she had let Trump do to her. Of course, he knew… Trump had always been the bragging type. She couldn't help but imagine their combined laughter at her humiliation. And as quickly as her veneer of pride had surfaced, it shattered, swiftly replaced with a pained expression and a will that could no longer meet his gaze.  
“Why don’t you ask him?” Putin waved his hand in Chase’s direction. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m sure he’d be eager to help”. Kamala wanted to respond with sarcasm, but Chase’s condition was too serious for her to ignore. Putin looked at the silent pair, glowering at Chase. “Go on, tell her everything you know. How you two managed to sneak that software onto the President’s computer. How it went undetected for the longest time any foreign software has ever managed within the White House systems. And maybe, Mr. Dalton, just maybe, I´ll let her live to see another day.” Putin’s voice wasn’t cold anymore, instead of full of mirth. He seemed to be enjoying their combined fear. She looked at the Russian in shock. She had fully expected, walking in here, that it was over. That the game was up, and she had lost, but hearing the threat spoken so clearly by a man of whom she had no doubt would act on it without even the slightest thought of remorse made it all the more real.  
It also made one fact very clear in her mind; she wanted to live. And she would do almost anything for it. To see her family again, and more, knowing they would be safe, meant everything to her. But the moment she confirmed Putin’s suspicions, the moment she came clean as a spy, it would be over for her. There would be no life left for her, and no guarantee that her family would live either… She'd seen Putin’s fear tactics, his methods of torture and intimidation up close and personal. She wasn’t going to become another victim on his long list of enemies.   
Chase looked at her, then at Putin, as if confirming a thought. “I told you everything. I was working alone”. Putin’s apparent annoyance, until that point, kept in check, boiled over, and from the way Chase’s body looked, she could see that this kind of questioning must have been going on since he was taken. Putin snarled at Chase before kicking the back of Kamala’s knees. She felt herself fall, dropping down at the unexpected movement. She gasped in surprise, whimpering in fear, as she felt the cold metal of a gun crushing into her temple as Putin’s hand grabbed her hair to hold her in place. It seemed like time slowed down, seconds extending to hours, every breath a crystal-clear imprint on her mind. She stayed completely still, not daring to move even an inch while the cold metal ground against her skin.   
“Tell me” Putin yelled at Chase, digging the gun into her head with vigor. “Tell me, or I will kill your ONE last beacon of hope!” She felt tears flowing down her cheeks as it slowly but surely became harder to breathe. “I. Told. You. Everything”, Chase got out between gritted teeth. “She had no part in it”. Something in the back of Kamala’s head warned her that a panic attack was coming, but she was powerless to stop it. “Please don’t”. Her voice sounded small, pitiful, and she hated herself for begging. Putin paid her no heed. “Then she’s useless to me,” he said and Kamala flinched as he pulled the trigger, too shocked about her imminent death to make a sound.  
Exactly two things made her realize that she was, in fact, not dead. The first was Chase’s desperate scream. She herself was kneeling on the floor, Putin had let go of her hair. She was slumped over, brown eyes wide open, with one hand covering her mouth and the other firmly planted on the ground, her hair hung over her eyes like a curtain, obscuring the grim reality around her and providing a brief respite.   
The second was the burning feeling in her lungs as she realized that she hadn't taken a breath for at least a minute. She inhaled shakily, but her lungs weren’t listening to what her body told them. Gasping, she saw black spots dancing in front of her vision and she tried breathing so hard, but her body wouldn't listen. Someone’s hand grabbed her shoulder, violently pulling her around. “Calm down!” Putin yelled at her but she couldn't quite process the words. She stared up at Putin in confusion, but still never saw his hand coming. The blow appeared out of nowhere and struck her across the cheek. However, it served its purpose. She hadn’t been expecting the hit, and it slapped her right out of her panic. Her lungs gradually expanded with air again. “Don´t you fucking dare faint before I’m done with you, or I will make you regret it. Do you understand?” She looked at Putin and nodded, whimpering in fear as he grabbed her shoulders. “I asked you a question. Do. You. Understand.” She drew in a shaky breath, close to having another panic attack, but when she muttered out a “Yes, I understand”, he let go of her.

Putin got up and walked over to Chase. “Thank you, Mr. Dalton, for so actively showing us where your loyalties lie. Had you not reacted so violently just now, I might have believed your little game. I do believe that you've told me everything you know, but... don't worry, I have another source of Information now”. At his last words, Chase’s eyes were drawn to hers, and his mouth opened to say “Kamala I-'', but Putin never gave him the chance. The deafening shot rang out, crashing against Kamala’s eardrums and obscuring his last words. He jerked back against the wall, blood leaking from a bullet-size hole in his forehead. His eyes, once full of life, stared vacantly into oblivion.  
Putin pulled back one of the metal chairs and held out one of his hands towards her. The speed with which he transformed from a violent murderer into a man completely calm and collected was... inhuman and she wondered whether there was some kind of empathy left in him at all. “Please, sit,” he said, mirroring their last conversation in the Oval Office. Daring her to repeat the rebellious answers she had given him before. She didn´t. She weakly took his hand to let him help her up. “Anything”, she thought. Anything to make him trust her only a little more. When he started talking again, she kept her head down, eyes averted. “Mrs. Harris, do you want to end up like that?” He gestured towards Chase’s corpse. The gunshot had blown most of his face away. She felt sick and looked away. “Do you want to end up beaten with a bullet in your head?” he repeated. “No,” she whispered, eyes fixating on the metal surface of the table, her finger nervously tapping on the cold surface, anything to distract her from the horrible reality that Chase was dead. “Good,” said Putin. “You don't have to if you just cooperate. I might even be able to get the President to let you go home. To Douglas, your husband…” At that he threw a card out onto the table. Her husband’s picture was on it. Not one she recognized, but from when she had last seen him, she knew it must be recent. “And your sister, and your niece, and all the children”. With every person, he placed a photo on the table, all of them new like the first.  
She got the message; they were being watched. Something in her changed. And at that moment, she knew that Putin had made a mistake. It was as if the fear for her own life had been pushed back into the darkest corner of her mind, being replaced with utter hatred for the man sitting in front of her. Had he left her family out of this; she probably would have told him everything. But she’d die for her family… She´d kill for her family. Her eyes hardened when they rose to meet him. “As the boy said, he was working alone”, she said through gritted teeth.  
“Then tell me what you were doing in the president’s office five days ago. No one is allowed in there without his order”. She fixed him with the best poker face she could muster, holding her head high to look him straight in the eyes before saying “I was picking up a few files I had left there during the President’s morning briefing.” Him threatening her family had hit a nerve and all the anger of the last week was threatening to boil over. But it also gave her the strength to fight him.  
His face didn't show any emotion. Likely, they were carefully locked away behind mental walls and barriers constructed long ago, and she wondered if any trace of his humanity remained. “How is your husband?”, he asked in a sickeningly sweet tone, but she knew what he was trying to do. He couldn’t upset her so easily now, and more, she could throw it right back in his face. “I wouldn't know. I wasn't allowed to see him for weeks, but maybe you should worry about your own wife more. If you’re gone too long, she might run off with another dictator”. She must have hit a nerve there, for Putin got up with a start and walked over to her. He braced his hands against the table until his face was right in front of her own. “It would be so incredibly sad if something were to happen to them, don’t you think?” He looked at the photos in dismay. “If I were you, I´d be a little more cooperative. Your nieces would be so sad if their mothers had to die, all because their aunt fucked up the only thing she was useful for. Let alone your orphaned children should something happen to both their parents”. She felt the anger rise within her, bottled up for weeks. It was as if someone had collected every negative emotion she had contained and unleashed it at Putin right there “Leave my family the FUCK out of this,” she screamed and this time, Putin was the one who didn't see her fist coming.  
Just as quickly that the anger had come, it vanished and was replaced with fear as Putin slowly wiped the blood off his lip. ‘Well that was stupid Kamala´, she thought while she stumbled back from him, away from the chair and table. “I-''. She knew there was no way back from this now, but she spoke the words regardless. He stalked towards her; his eyes were filled with murderous intent. “I'm sorry. I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me, please I-”. His hand slammed her head into the table, ending her sentence for her. She groaned out in pain as she slid from the table onto the ground, warm, sticky blood running down her face. Putin was in no mood to give her the time to recover. His hand grasped her hair, pulling her up to face him and his voice, deadly calm, stood in stark to his frame, trembling with rage. “You’re going tell me what you were doing in that office right now, and maybe I´ll make this quick”. She blinked hard, trying to focus on the president’s face. “I…”. Speaking was nigh-impossible. “I was getting files that I had forgotten earlier”. She barely got to the last word before his fist landed in her gut, knocking the air from her lungs and herself down to the ground again. Her fingers felt cold metal from the chair she had been sitting in a moment ago. Through teary-eyed vision, she grasped the leg and swung it as hard as she could. It didn’t travel far but succeeded in stopping Putin in his tracks for just long enough to let her crawl towards the door. Once she got out of this room, she would make a run for it.

Kamala felt her hopes being crushed, along with her ribs, as Putin’s foot on her back stopped her in her tracks. “Where the fuck do you think you are going!?” he yelled, before flipping her over with his leg. She tried to fight him off, but the pain in her ribs and the lack of air sapped the strength from her limbs. Plus, he was stronger by far and had the advantage. He straddled her, and with his weight fully on top of her, pulled his gun. She cursed herself for not attempting to grab it when she had the chance. At least, she thought to herself, at least I’m going down fighting. The gun smacked her face, once again taking her breath away. “Tell me!” Putin yelled as he wrestled on top of her, readying the butt of his gun for another hit when suddenly, the door opened.  
She heard Trump's voice shouting something at Putin, and immediately she could breathe again. Her chest heaved, sucking in air, coughing and wheezing. It took all her strength to even open her eyes. Her whole body ached and her head felt like it was about to explode. Rolling over, trying to hide her face in her arms while regaining her breath, she attempted to block out the myriad sensations that threatened to overwhelm her. “What the hell is going on here?” she could hear Trump’s voice asking, dumbfounded. “Putin-” the Russian interrupted him, wiping her blood off his hands, while Trump just stared at him with a belligerent expression. "I taught her a lesson," Putin said, "One that she's not likely to forget".

She could hear Trump groan in annoyance. "I told you to investigate, not to damn near kill her. If she's innocent, why does she look like that!?" He came closer to her, to the point she could smell his pungent cologne. It made her retch and she realized, between the pain, that at least one of her ribs was cracked. “Well,” she groaned out in pain, summoning the strength to speak. “Your attack dog can’t tell the difference between investigating and torture”. The last thing she remembered was Putin stalking towards her and the butt of a gun flashing between her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! leave a comment so that we can improve!!


	10. Home

She was hovering somewhere between unconsciousness and wakefulness. Exhausted, and with a dull throbbing pain, along with the fact that breathing seemed harder than it should be, kept calling her out of blissful sleep. She barely knew what was happening around her. Only moments stuck with her, hazy, blurred memories she was unsure of which to trust. Someone hoisting her up from the floor. The man's grasp, not violent, but not gentle either. She heard Trump and Putin's voices, discussing something. She whimpered out at being moved, and the voices stopped for a few seconds before continuing as if nothing had happened.

Her head slipped backward, making the world seem reversed. She saw an aide gasping at the sight of her. So young, Kamala thought, with her blonde hair falling over her shoulders in waves, and the shock with which she looked at her made Kamala seriously considered if Putin had somehow done more damage than she felt.

He put her down in what felt like a bed. It was incredibly soft, giving her aching muscles a chance to sink in and rest. She was so tired, wanting only to escape into dreams, but her head hurt like hell, and her mind refused to ignore it. She tried to concentrate on the cracks in the ceiling, but the moment she tried, her vision blurred and she blissfully felt herself falling back into unconsciousness.

She woke up after what felt like a moment. Her headache had gotten even worse than before, and Kamala desperately tried to form even a single thought through the pain. To no avail. She flinched away what her eyes fell upon the shadow of a man bending over her. “Don't move”, he said while his hands rested on her arm. He must have sensed her panic through her racing pulse, because he immediately let go and said with concern in his voice, “Don't worry, I'm a doctor. I'm here to help you”. She sighed and sank back into the mattress, deciding to believe him. After all, she certainly felt like she needed a doctor, and trusting him gave her an excuse to relax. “Where does it hurt?”, he asked.

“My head”. Her voice was breaking as she tried to speak, and the two words stole the breath from her mouth. His hands touched her face, moving so that he could see the laceration on her head. “That must have been a nasty fall you took… down the stairs”. At her confused glance, he looked over his shoulder. Only then did she recognize the man standing guard a few feet behind her bed. “I think you can leave now,” the doctor tersely ordered the guard, and to Kamala's surprise, he did actually turn and leave. “Mrs. Harris,” he began. “I worked in an ER for ten years, and I know what a bad fall looks like.” It got harder and harder for her to focus on him, and closed her eyes, concentrating on his voice. All she wanted to do was sleep. “Look at me!”, he said, deathly serious, so much so that she willed her mind to focus on his face. “If you don’t want them to hurt you again, you'll stick to this story, okay? Don't say anything about what happened, other than you stumbled down a stairwell”. She nodded slowly, her brain sluggishly registering his logic. She hardly believed anyone would question the President or Putin, even if they knew the truth. “You have a serious concussion”.

She felt the pain in her ribcage and wanted to mention it to him, but the words wouldn’t leave her mouth. The doctor kept talking, something about what she needed to do in the next few weeks, how long she should stay in bed, but her strength was spent. She was too tired to fight it further, and as her eyelids drifted shut, she heard the doctor telling her to wake up, that she needed to be during his diagnosis. The last thing she remembered before completely slipping away was the sound of a door banging open, and someone that sounded like Doug yelling out in shock. 

\---

\---

Doug had been sitting in his hotel room when he got the call that there had been an accident. One of the President's aides had contacted him, saying that something had happened to his wife and that he should come in. Without a clue why they would let him see her, he rushed out of his room and down to the lobby.

With every passing second, his worries grew. D.C.´s traffic was as bad as ever. It gave him too much time to think, to wonder how badly she was. He had no way to call or text her, and telling their family could just put her in even more danger. The black sedan pulled up to the curb, and without waiting for his driver, he pushed the door open and was off towards the security entrance. Once inside, he raced down the halls, the aide who accompanied him yelling to slow down. The only response Doug gave was shouting out questions for directions. When he finally reached the medical ward, he didn't bother knocking, instead twisting the knob and barging through the door.

He had prepared himself for the worst, but the sight that greeted him still left him speechless. She was passed out in bed, her swollen face telling a story of bruising and violence, especially around her left temple. The wound to her head seemed fresh, and someone wearing a white coat – a doctor - bent over her, wiping the blood away. “Oh my god”, he exclaimed. “What happened?” He braced himself against the doorframe, needing a moment to take it all in. Without much sympathy, the doctor responded. “Oh good, you're here on time. Come here, please”. Doug tried to keep his thoughts back, stumbling forward towards his wife. Tears jumped into his eyes when he saw how she looked up close. “Oh god…what did he do to you”, he whispered out. The man next to him sighed. “If it helps, it looks worse than it is. I need you to pull yourself together so I can tell you what she needs. She has a severe concussion, so she should not move or read much for the next three days. She’ll probably feel sick after eating, so you need to be here in the case it comes back up. It will pass, but it'll take time. Just try to keep her calm, and be there if she needs anything. I've prepared some pain killers, so that she can sleep, but that's… everything I can do”. He took out a syringe containing a clear liquid and pressed it into a vein in her arm. He looked at Doug for a few seconds, seemingly debating whether or not to say something, before turning around and leaving the room in silence.

Doug sat next to her for what felt like an eternity, just looking at her. He had wanted to be with her, to hold her close to him for so long, but not like this. He let his fingers trail across the unbruised side of her face, wanting desperately to pull her into his arms. But the extent of her injuries forbade it. His fingers traced the bruise on her temple, wondering how she could have gotten it, and from who. The pain, the fear she must have felt…it was all over his mind. He felt horrible. His wife had been in danger, had probably been scared for her life, and he hadn't been there to protect her.

Kamala’s vision was blurry. Everything felt…fuzzy? She had slept so peacefully, without even dreams to interrupt her, that she was sure she must be on some sort of drug. “Ouch” she groaned out in pain as she tried to move, and raised her hand to her head. Another hand caught it, and even in her delirium she recognized the feel of his hand. She entwined their fingers, slightly opening her eyes to look at his face, and smiled before slipping away again. Her brain was hovering at the edge of consciousness, and Doug's muffled voice was talking to her from a distance. She felt a cool cloth rest on her forehead, slowing the dull ache in her head. She felt feverish, her body's temperature flipping between hold and cold simultaneously. “Kamala?”, her husband asked, watching her eyelids fluttering. “Hey Kami, I know you're really tired and in pain, but you need to eat something, okay? Just a little bit. Then you can sleep, ok?” He sounded desperate, and she wanted to wake up, if just for him, to relax and reassure him. Collecting all her strength, she opened her eyes and smiled up at him. It probably didn't look very earnest, but she hoped it conveyed the longing she felt. “I got you some soup,” Doug said as his voice strained. “I thought that would be the easiest to eat”. Kamala let him help her up, wincing at the pain it caused her before settling back down against the headboard. 

And so, Doug sat with her, slowly spooning food into her mouth, in silence. She had tried to speak, but it was still too difficult to muster up the strength in her lungs. He had talked for them both, telling of what little developments in the outside world he had been privy to, before giving her the pain medicine the doctor had prescribed. She wanted to roll over, to grab his arm and curl around it like a security blanket, but instead relaxed herself back into the bed. Having slept so soundly before, she had hoped to be able to drift off again, but her stomach had other ideas. Doug, watching her reaction, instantly regretted having made her eat. It didn't seem to have done her any good now, that he had to hold her hair while she threw up. Her voice sounded out after the last retch escaped her throat. "Eating sucks,” she whispered, and fell back into the bed. He stroked her hair softly, trying to make her feel better. “I know” he said.

“Throwing up makes everything hurt more”, she whispered. He felt even worse hearing those words, but tried not to show it. The next time Kamala woke up, her world was clearer. Everything felt more defined, more real. Taking a deep breath, she relished in the sensation of being awake without a splitting headache. Whatever Doug had given her, it must have been good. Her eyes wandered over to her husband, huddled in a chair next to the wall. His eyes lit up upon seeing her awake, but the bags under his made it clear he hadn't slept well for days. “You don’t have to stay up for me, you know? I can take care of myself now”. His hand found hers and held on to it tightly. “Are you ok?” he asked, disregarding her promise. "You were mostly out for two days…I was so worried”. She felt bad, knowing her condition was keeping him awake. “I'm okay”. Doug's hand cupped her cheek, making sure she was as ok as she said. “Well you better be, because Trump said once you’re fine, I can take you home”. He smiled, watching the light jump into her eyes at the news. Her tears reflected in his eyes, and she grasped his hand even tighter while happiness she hadn’t felt in a long time began to blossom in her heart. She tried to quell her excitement, fearing it was just one of Putin’s games, while her husband continued. “I don’t understand it myself – why they would let you go – why now of all times, but Kamala, I can’t get myself to care. You’re coming home with me and that’s everything that matters right now”. Despite his words, she could see the worry in his face, that this was indeed part of some broader scheme. She kissed the inside of his hand that laid on her face. She just wanted to take his worries away. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Trump probably just felt bad for what happened”, she said, but neither of them really believed it.

\---

\---

“Do you want to take anything from your room here?”, Doug asked while she was sitting on the bed, trying to ease the pain in her head. It had been a day since she had woken up, and three since Putin had, as he put it, ' _interrogated'_ her. Even if physically, she was still miserable, in her mind she felt more powerful than she had in weeks. Against all odds, Kamala had beaten Putin at his own game. Trump had talked to her and Doug yesterday evening, even apologizing for what had happened. He told them he was certain Kamala hadn’t done anything wrong, and while she had the feeling that the words were anything but honest, they had given her power. Whatever he really believed; he had no proof. She had held out and it had been worth it.

Something had happened between her entering that interrogation room and her recovery. Something had snapped inside of her, and she felt her determination to put a stop to this resurge stronger than ever before. She smiled with cold determination at the thought that, once she was home, it would be even easier for the Founders to contact her. Suddenly it hit her. She gasped at the realization, her face turning towards her husband. “Kamala?” he asked, surprised at her reaction. “What’s wrong?” She waved him closer, not wanting to tell him within earshot of anyone else. “That’s why they’re letting me go home”, she whispered. “They have nothing to lose. If I didn’t do anything like Trump said, then it's just some aide being sent home, but if not…they probably think the Founders will contact me once I’m easier to reach. That way they could eliminate both threats.”

Doug looked at her intensely, and she could see in his face that he agreed. “Let’s not talk about this here. Do you want to take anything from your room?”, he repeated. “Oh, no. I don't want anything to remind me of this place” she replied with a little shudder. "I just want to go home". Doug seemed to agree, taking her hand and helping her up out of the room. Kamala stopped in front of the door, smirking at her husband. “How do I look?”, she asked with a smile on her face, knowing fully well it was blue with bruises. Doug looked down at her, considering his answer, before grinning and saying “a little blue”. She opened her mouth in mock shock at his pun before laughing out, “You’re horrible!” She laughed while stepping out into the empty hallway. It felt so good to finally have him close to her again. Whatever happened, he had the ability to make her feel happy, and she had missed it. Walking these corridors she had always dreamed of walking down. She knew it was only temporary, and that once her health returned she would be back within these walls, but now, she had a home to return to. She would go home every night. She would have an escape. And a partner to share in her horrid job with her. Doug’s hand grew painfully tight around hers, pulling her back out of her thoughts and her eyes fell upon the figure who elicited that level of response from her husband.

Putin stood at the end of the hallway. leaned against the wall, as if he had been waiting for her. When he stepped into their path, his body language seemed casual, but she could see the anger in his eyes. He had never been used to being wrong, or being beaten. Kamala looked up at her husband, giving him a reassuring smile. She had played Putin in the interrogation room, and she could do it again. They walked across the hallway, hands entwined, and Kamala didn’t bother to even glance at Putin. He reached out, his fingers just barely grazing her shoulder, and started to speak, but she broke him off before he could get out the first word. “I don’t care,” she said coldly, looking straight into his icy blue eyes, before shrugging off his hand. She kept her gaze locked with his for a few more seconds before turning around, as if deeming him unworthy of her time anymore. She didn’t wait for his reaction, and followed Doug out to the waiting car at the curb.

When she stepped through the door of their D.C. Home, it felt like all the burdens of her past were immediately lifted. Doug had gone in ahead of her, and she slid down behind the closed door, sprawled out on the floor in a mixture of laughing and crying in sheer relief of her escape. Her headache had returned, and it made her reaction all the more emotional. Doug seemed surprised, walking back towards her to crouch down in front of her. He cupped her face, kissing her on top of her hairline, before pulling her into a hug. “It’s okay. You’re home now", he said soothingly, and she laid her head on his chest, listening to his rhythmic heartbeat. Trying to not think of anything but him, and her.

\---

\---

She looked out her window over the Washington skyline. Her hands rested on the windowsill. Completely still, she remained there for close to half an hour, and Doug was starting to worry about what must be filling her thoughts. “Kamala?”, he asked, unsure how to approach her. “What’s going on?”. She didn’t immediately reply, so he just moved to stand next to her. The weather was beautiful. It had snowed the previous night, and a bright sun reflected off the fresh powder back into the deep blue sky. “D.C. looks really peaceful covered in snow, doesn’t it?”, he smiled down at her, but she still didn’t react. Suddenly, Kamala inhaled deeply. “I’m going to kill him”.

She said it so calmly, so casually, that he thought he had misheard. “What?” “I'm going to kill him", she repeated. "I’m going to end this. I want revenge, for what he did to me, for what he did to you and to everyone else”. At this point, her eyes moved to lock with his, and despite the obvious difference in height, at that moment he felt small compared to his wife. “And I will make _sure_ it hurts. I want to hurt him just as much as he hurt me”. He looked into her eyes and he saw so much pain, so much anger. Something had broken inside her that he never even realized had been there before. Despite the conviction and intensity of her voice, it couldn’t hide the pain he saw inside of her. The thought that this cold, menacing, and vengeful state was her only way of handling what happened scared him. He put his hands on her upper arms, finding her eyes in the process. “You know I'll support you through anything Kamala, just…please just make sure you don’t lose yourself in the process”.


	11. Rest Disturbed

They woke up in each other's arms, Kamala's eyelids fluttering as the bright morning light streamed through the crack in the shades. She looked at Doug, who was already smiling at her, his arm draped over her shoulders from when they fell asleep in that position the night before. She had slipped right into his embrace, his arm tightly around her waist. They hadn’t used to sleep entwined like this. Both had preferred to sleep without the touch of others, despise loving the others closeness while awake, but since she was back it felt like the most natural thing to both of them. Doug's hand tightened slightly at seeing her awake, reassuring her with the firm yet comforting grip on her body, grounding her in reality and focusing her thoughts. Away from the nightmares that plagued her sleep, that she kept hidden during her waking hours. She grabbed his arm, playfully laughing and rolling over, pulling him with her in an effort to bring the both of them closer. Her eyes fell upon the alarm, noticing the time and relative lateness in the morning. 8:50. Suddenly her heart started racing, and she sucked in a breath. Relaxing her grip on Doug, she shot up in bed, disregarding her husband's apparent confusion as she threw the sheets off and tugged on a pair of slippers. "Kamala?" Doug questioned, stifling a yawn. "What's up?" Grabbing the nightgown she had hung from a chair, she turned around as she slipped it on to face him. "I'm late, I need to…to…" Suddenly she stopped, frozen in space as the sleeve to her dress hung loosely off her shoulder. She had been about to say "get to work or Trump will kill me", but she paused, realizing where she was, how she was.

And immediately, as if waiting for her to remember, a dull ache settled in her head, and a throbbing pulse emitted from her ribs.  "You're not late, Kamala, you're here, with me", Doug replied, sensing the situation. His low, even voice reflected the tension he felt, the way he hoped to calm her down and ease the emotions that he knew were still afflicting her, even now,  days later.  The adrenaline which had boisterously propelled her out of bed now faded, only to be replaced by doubt and fear. She sat back down on the bed, her fingers rubbing her aching temples willing the pain away.  Kamala nodded, body poised, still ready to move at a moment's notice, but she dropped the nightgown onto the  ground beside her and slowly climbed back into the bed, her husband's arms open to receive her. There they cuddled, in silence, and steadily her heartbeat returned to normal as Doug stroked her hair.  Suddenly, the silence was deafening. Kamala was desperate to return to the air of normalcy she had felt upon wakefulness. "What's for breakfast?" she asked eagerly. At that, her husband gave a small chuckle, relieved. " Is it a crime to do pancakes twice in a row?" Kamala curled back against his chest, happy to be calm again. "Only if you forget chocolate chips again" she pouted, to which her husband swore a solemn oath he would not , before leaving the warm sheets himself to get dressed and make his way into the kitchen.

Smiling after him, Kamala glanced back at the alarm, watching the digital lights flash as the minutes crawled by. 9:00. Her head was starting to feel like it was about to explode. There it was. Her day had begun. She wondered to herself, what he was up to right now. Not her husband, oh no, but  him . The man who made her the way she  now  was. The man who ruled the country with an iron fist, one she had previously seen on a daily basis, but was now resolved to notice only from television and news.  At first it had been galling to see news stations she had  once respected, filled with bright, energetic young minds , resigned to spouting his rhetoric as if they were decrees from heaven itself. B ut she had known the news was in his pocket long before she had the displeasure of viewing it.  Realistically, her mind blamed the man himself, and no other, despite the fact that plenty of people were going along with the change in power relatively calmly. After the initial weeks of revolt and shock faded away, many realized their personal lives stayed very much the same, and thus the Constitutional founders rolled in their graves a s the citizens they had so desperately tried to teach to revolt against a corrupt government , did in fact decide not to revolt. 

Touching her bruised ribs, she tested their sensitivity and found it tolerable enough to dress herself. It would be the first time in days. Bangs and noise from the kitchen indicated her husband's activity, but Kamala's thoughts were drawn inward. Without him there to distract her, her attention was again brought back to the thoughts that plagued her ever since she had returned home. Running her hands over the windowsill, she scanned the surface for the hundredth time. Always on the lookout for anything suspicious, anything that would give her reason to believe their house had been searched or bugged. Despite Trump's words of encouragement concerning her trustworthiness, she doubted he was truly fooled. And Putin, as long as he decided to stay within the White House walls, he held sway over Trump's opinion, and she had no doubt he kneweverything. For the last two weeks Kamala and Doug had scoured every surface of their flat and found nothing, but the small glimpse at spy technology Chase had opened her eyes to meant nothing could settle her nerves. Activities she had once performed without thinking, such as having the TV as background noise, suddenly became terrifying if the subject material was anything she believed Trump might find suspicious. Even now, after two weeks in isolation, she hadn't contacted her family besides to tell them she was home with Doug, and safe. Her stepchildren, sister and niece were eager to see her, clueless as to her physical state. That was how she wanted it. To keep them safe from the reality of her situation just a bit longer, no matter how much she longed to see them as well.

Her hand resting on the window, eyes clouded in thought, Kamala almost missed the black SUVs rolling up against the curb of her building's entrance. For a second she wondered who would bother to come to her, when he stepped out of the back, flanked by two security guards on either side and another group bringing up the rear. Trump strode forwards, his suit's coattails flapping in the morning breeze as he shielded himself against the chill and walked inside the double doors. It took all of five seconds, but to her it lasted an eternity. He was here. Outside. Now he was inside. Her thoughts fractured, breaking up into individual realizations until she understood why he must be here. For her. “Doug!” she yelled, panic rising in her voice as the hurriedly stepped back from the window, she glanced around the room, searching for something proper to wear. A black and brown striped sweater and black jeans were the first things she spotted that wouldn't need her husband's help, and struggling into them, she yelled out her husbands name again over the hissing of batter turning into breakfast. It paused for a second, and she heard him coming closer. "Yeah?" he yelled back, his attention occupied by cooking. She had ran down the steps to the kitchen standing in the door with an expression that matched the desperation she felt inside "Trump's here" he met her gaze with asurprised stare. "What do you mean, Trump is here?” Doug turned off the stove and crossed the room putting a grounding hand on her shoulder. "He's inside the building. Where else do you think he's going?". In her current state of paranoia, she cursed herself for even speaking so worriedly about him, for fear it was being recorded. “I don’t think I can handle this right now Dougie,” she said, worry edged in her voice and his hand found her chin, raising her gaze to meet his. “Kamala you’re smart and strong and you can do this. I’ll be there the whole time to support you, but not because I don’t think you can’t do it alone, but because I need it to calm my own nerves”

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation, and with a mix of uncertainty and fear she walked closer, picking up the pace at the second knock. Opening it revealed a smiling, cheerful-looking Donald who looked completely out of place with his entourage of agents, all of whom wore dark shades and black suits despite the hallway's dim lighting. "Kamala!" he started off sounding quite pleased, a mood she was generally unfamiliar with. She felt Dougs had on her shoulder tighten at the Presidents innocent approach. "Sorry for the interruption. I just wanted to come by and see how you're doing." If it wasanyone else, Kamala would have had an answer ready at the lips. But now, it took all the willpower she could muster to raise the corners of her lips into a smile. Her voice felt like a robot's as she replied "Thank you sir, I'm honored." The desire to slam the door in his face grew stronger every second, “Well,” Trump asked “aren’t you going to bid me in?”, and without thinking she stepped aside, she tried to keep any kind of emotion at bay, as she gestured to the president to come in. Flapping the corners of his coat to rid it of the outside snow, Trump nodded, playing along or simply enjoying himself. 

The scenario was surreal. Trump placed himself on a bar stool at the kitchen island. Doug's impassive face watched the president wearily while his body language suggested an impulsive fight response to the President's arrival. Kamala continued smiling as the President brought her up to date on the events that had occurred since she left. She was starting to feel like with every information her headache got a little bit worse.This secretary of war had been fired, some country had agreed to trade talks. Finally, he circled around to his first real sentence. “You know Kamala,” He spoke so softly it almost scared her more than yelling, “you can trust me. If anything happened between you and the founders, we can figure it out. There won’t be any more… accidents. I promise” she almost laughed at him, but managed to keep her expression as neutral as ever. Dougs hand grasped hers under the table, entwining their fingers and holding her tight to show his support. She smiled at Trump “I still don’t know what you’re talking about. I could never betray you, Mr. President” her seemingly sweet and naïve smile stood in stark contrast to the angry growl that now started to show on the presidents features. His voice was no longer caring, instead it was malicious, "So, Kamala, how much longer until we can expect you back at work?" His question, while spoken with a lighthearted tone, carried malevolence and an air of expectation behind it. "When I'm feeling better", she spoke. Gesturing to herself, she said "I'm still recovering. I'm sorry, but I can't give you a solid answer". Trump laughed, apparently unfazed. "Well, I don't see how a few cuts and bruises are enough to keep you locked up here, are they? You’ve always… advocated yourself as being a fighter didn’t you? " ‘Locked up’…ironic, coming from you", Kamala thought to herself. It was clear what Trump wanted, and no matter how much he tried to hide it behind giving empty choices, Kamala knew he was impatient to have her return to the White House. She was about to speak when Doug, who had until that point remained silent, spoke up. "She needs her rest. She was beaten badly…by those stairs". Kamala could see the worry in his eyes as he spoke, unable to keep quiet. Trump's eyes grew icy cold, staring at Doug in silence. "It was unfortunate that accident. But it certainly cleared up some things for her" he said pointing at Kamala. "No matter what happened in the past, we need you back at the White House as soon as possible". Doug rose from his chair, one hand on his wife’s back, the other hand plantedfirmly on the table “Dougie no-“, she started, but he didn’t pay attention “She can NOT go back to work yet-“ his words got cut off by her nails digging into his arm “Douglas SIT DOWN!” she hissed at him, and there was so much fear for him in her voice, that it shut him up immediately. She looked at him with pleading eyes and Trump started laughing. “Yes ‘Dougie’,” he said and Douglas could see the hatred for this man rise in his wife’s eyes, “listen to your wife, sit down” he eyed the both of them suspiciously before muttering "You know, it was an unfortunate accident but stairs can be so slippery. You both should be careful that no more accidents happen".

" We are always careful. " Kamala spoke quietly trying not to avert her eyes, or let any fear show. “You don’t have to worry” Her headache was really starting to kill her by now .  Trump's eyes narrowed, and the  annoyed, red-faced  bell igerent expression she was  familiar with took over his face once again, while he got up " Kamala. Just know that t here was no mistake. What happened, happened for a reason. And now that it's over, you need to report in to work. In a week".  Kamala had to stop herself from raising her voice and rising to her own defen se. It was clear Trump wouldn't turn on this.  "Ok", she said simply, her expression turning to stone, while she  play ed along for her own sake. "If you really need me, I'll be there." That elicited the same cheesy smile he had given at the door, and standing up,  he brushed off his suit. "Well, I'm happy to hear that. It'll be good to have you back. I wish I could stay for  breakfast , but it's a busy day!"

They smiled at Trump ,  awkwardly , before Kamala showed him to the door. After he left, she closed it, gently, before slumping down on the other side. "I didn't think seeing him was going to be that hard" she whispered as Doug came to check on her. "I know" he agreed. "I don't know how much it would've done, but I kept imagining this spatula I used flying right into his eye. I doubt it would have helped." Kamala laughed, not an imaginary laugh, but a real one, and she thanked Doug in her head for having the ability to improve her mood, no matter the situation. "I wish you had" she breathed between chuckles. "But I'm glad you didn't". Doug walked closer, sliding down to lean against the door beside her. "So", he started , sitting down next to her, " If you want to I can still run after him with that spatula and make him never want to see you or me again,” she smiled in a mixture of desperation and happiness “Wouldn’t that be funny”, she whispered while laying her head on his shoulder


End file.
